This erotic tale of love, sex, passion, and peril is the lovechild of Afrofuturism and White Submission porn. It takes place in a World of Black Magick where the good, the bad, and the uncanny come together in consummation propelled by mysterious, powerful forces from deep within and beyond.
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Dustin and the Psychiatrist,
by Skorpio
Part Five
The storm struck without warning. One minute the sky was blue, and the warm sun was shining brightly. Spring was in the air. A minute later, the inverted bowl of heaven was streaked with ribbons of red, the color of blood, and swift, tenebrous clouds blotted out the solar disk. Pouring rain sent people scurrying for shelter. Lightning flashed on the heels of a thunderous cannonade.
Dr. Udeme Ezinwa stood at the large, triple windows hung with yellowing philodendrons. He did not know why the plants were dying, but that was not what troubled him. Ordinarily, he enjoyed the fury of a raging tempest, yet there was something about this thunderstorm that disturbed him. The lightning was so close as if the building of glass and steel was at the epicenter.
He muttered a verse in French:
"Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville; Quelle est cette langeur Quit pénètre mon coeur?"
"What was that?" asked Dr. Conrad Kaufmann, standing on the other side of the psychiatrist's desk.
"It's nothing," Ezinwa dismissed. "Just an old poem my mother recites on rainy days."
"Yes, I know it. It's by Verlaine. `It weeps in my heart as it rains on the village. What is this lethargy which penetrates my heart?' Is that not a fair translation?" The heavy-set doctor's thick German accent crushed whatever music may have been wrung from those syllables.
"It's sweeter in the French."
Ezinwa turned around to face his colleague. This was the first time he felt anything in common with Kaufmann other than their mutual ambition to precipitate the Faggot Apocalypse. It was not that Ezinwa doubted Kaufmann's blackness, and yet something was off. With other True Men, the Nigerian felt a bond of fraternal kinship that was more than an exalted principle. It was an almost palpable sensation, a mutual spark of recognition and respect. With Kaufmann, however, it was otherwise. Kaufmann left him cold.
The look on Kaufmann's face was difficult to interpret. His brow was knit, yet his ample lips were contorted, neither smiling nor frowning as if he could not decide which emotion to express. The double-thick lenses magnified his dark eyes making them impossible to interpret. Still, Kaufmann's arrival could only mean one thing.
"Have you finished examining the blood?" asked Ezinwa.
"I have been examining it for five hours, my friend," Kaufmann huffed. "Five hours when it should have taken five minutes! I only looked away from the microscope to fill this notebook and still I have not seen enough or found the words to describe what I think I've seen. Five hours! Perhaps five hundred hours would not suffice."
"You speak in riddles. What did you find? Is our American faggot the Scarlet Catamite? Can the virulence be synthesized from his blood?"
"I am a scientist. Your first question I cannot answer, although I believe your beguiling patient meets every criterion. As for your second question, I have already seen to that. The small sample we drew was sufficient to manufacture four doses of the synthetic pathogen. I have already made plans with a confederate to test it on four unsuspecting subjects."
"That is excellent news!" The handsome Nigerian beamed with a flicker of triumph in his eyes. "I, too, have received word from my associates. Someone will come to collect the Scarlet Catamite on Monday. A shipping crate awaits him inside the loading dock. In the meantime, we must photocopy all our notes. Vanessa will see to that tomorrow morning."
"Do you still not know whom these secretive associates are or what will become of the faggot under their watch?"
"I have not told you all that I know," Ezinwa shrugged. He lit a gold-tipped cigarette and inhaled thoughtfully adding: "Or all that I know not of."
"Now, it is you who speaks in riddles."
"I know neither names nor numbers," Ezinwa replied. "One of these men contacted me. An emissary, perhaps? I do not know. He stood right where you are standing now. A very unusual man indeed. It happened on a night like this not nineteen days ago during a sudden thunderstorm. I remember the date because it was the first of April and my sons played an April Fool's Day prank before I left for work. It was also the day my monograph appeared in print. I was behind my desk when I should have been bound for home, poring over the obscure journal with limited circulation which published me, when a chill like icy fingers crept up the back of my neck. I looked up from the periodical and there he stood not a few feet away. How he got there, I did not know. He could not have entered through the door or Vanessa would have seen him. Perhaps she was away from her station. Even so, I would have seen him come into the room. At once I remembered the door was locked. I always lock the door when I do not wish to be disturbed. Yet, somehow he was there. That hand of ice you feel, when something occurs which you cannot rationally explain, closed around my heart. It can be quite unsettling."
"I have recently come to know the feeling," Kaufmann muttered.
"I did not know what to make of his extraordinary appearance," the Nigerian psychiatrist went on. "An albino with red eyes. I was reflexively repelled by the awful pallor of his skin and yet there was nothing ignoble about his features. He was impeccably dressed in a dark bespoke suit with a black rose boutonniere and polished black shoes. My eyes were drawn to the long, needle-sharp, black thorns. I thought that I was hallucinating except that I could feel his physical presence in the room with me. It was not only real, it was too real. What was altogether unreal was my placid acceptance of the situation. That, I could not fathom then and cannot fathom now."
Dr. Ezinwa flicked his cigarette into the jade ashtray on his desk. Thunder angrily pursued lightning. The desk lamp and ceiling lights flickered. On a night like this, talking about the albino stranger felt ominous if not unwise. Yet the story had to be shared. He wanted Kaufmann to know. Ezinwa turned again to the window to avert his face and resumed speaking, this time in a subdued, inward voice of rapt recollection.
"The stranger said that he wanted to see me because of the very magazine article open on my desk. `That's quite a coincidence,' I said, calmly. Why I was not outraged or demanding answers, I cannot say. So much of our encounter felt like a dream that it is hard to relate. Yet, he was unmistakably real. I could smell his pungent cologne, sweet and sour, pleasant and repellant at once. He offered me a cigarette, one of these, which I gladly accepted although I have not smoked in years. It was very real, very peculiar. As I said, it was like a dream."
"What was this article of yours about?"
"The title was `Case Studies in the Treatment of Intersectional Obsessive-Compulsive Delusional Disorders with a Post-Colonialist Paradigm Alignment,'" said Dr. Ezinwa. "It was a monograph on five male caucazoids with various common and generally treatable psychological disorders. They were all afflicted with Nubian Ero-Pyrexia, but that was not why they sought my help. One suffered acutely from pernicious insomnia, another from intolerable panic attacks, another from night terrors, another used narcotics to escape his subnormal self-esteem, and the fifth embraced conspiracy theories. What I found, however, was that these were only symptoms of a deeper disturbance. At the basis of each neurosis was their insatiable, oral craving for the True Phallus."
"Black cock, you mean," snorted the Germanic physician. He had little patience for poetic idioms. Terms like the True Phallus and True Men belonged to ancient scripture. No one in this day and age, least of all men of science, took seriously obscure myths of questionable provenance about The Scarlet Catamite and the Faggot Apocalypse.
"Yes, black cock," Ezinwa confirmed. "Mythical in its own right and very much a reality to contend with. One of us, perhaps, might take for granted the genetic blessings of his birthright, but most assuredly the caucazoids do not. They are ever mindful of us as the Men which they will never be."
"Where is this leading?"
"As I was about to say," said Ezinwa with a hint of exasperation, "none of these patients suffered concupiscence to the degree that it frightened them as was the case for our subject. Their hormonal cycles remained the same, only when overtaken by the desire to perform fellatio, their preference was for `black cock' exclusively. The thought of servicing one of their own made them nauseated, which in turn extremely diminished their opportunities for oral gratification. Moreover, they were socially awkward around People of Color, especially when outnumbered if that could not be avoided at all costs. One clung to a racist ideology which made his phallus-lust all the more challenging. I became fascinated by the effect Nubian Ero-Pyrexia had on caucazoid behavior. What struck me especially was how very submissive these inverts became when their lust was gratified. What possible use could we have for inferior caucazoids or their decadent culture? I consider them a pestilence worthy of the name. I would not be displeased if they were exterminated. The inverts among them, on the other hand, and this I began to consider quite seriously, might be useful if properly trained."
"I have often thought so, myself," Kaufmann affirmed. A flash of lightning turned his thick eyeglasses opaque. A moment later, his distorted, black pupils reappeared, gleaming wildly. "The faggot of the western world has always shown a marked predisposition to sexual subservience. The average Man's sexual needs cannot be met by the number or variety of women available to him."
"With women, one must be tender," said Ezinwa. "The female spirit tames Man with beauty and mystery. She contains his violence. She takes the power of Man inside her body at her own will to accept his seed and in return, she bestows bliss and life. There is no greater miracle than that."
"Violence cannot always be contained," said Kaufmann. "Sometimes they ask for it. No, not women of our own kind. That is unthinkable, as you know. Suicidal, one hastens to add. No, I speak of white women. They seek brutality. The American faggots too. Perhaps you can explain their psychology to me sometime."
"Some other time, to be sure, my friend. Let me ask a question. Do you think caucazoid females can be productive servants?"
"In my own limited experience? I would have to say: no. The white bitch is a willful, cunning creature that needs to be disciplined over and over with ever-increasing harshness. She will attempt to hide her defiance and fake submission, but sooner or later the truth comes out. Keep an eye on those micro-expressions. Sometimes a little coercion is required. The next time you see her, it is the same. More lies, more cunning, more defiance. That's why I don't believe those bitches can ever make good slaves. Who wants a stable of unruly whores? Yes, there is some satisfaction in taming them, but in the long run, they are not worth the effort. The American faggot, on the other hand, only has to be taught his lesson once."
Ezinwa responded with a deep, hearty chuckle. "Yes, yes," he said, mastering his mirth. "Their females are quite unsuitable. That is a pity. Yet it may be for the best. With females, there is always the dilemma of deterring pregnancy. The Seed of Africa,' it is said, takes root at once in fertile soil.' The burden of choice would be unfair to their offspring."
Remembering Kaufmann was of mixed race, Ezinwa stopped short, regretting his lack of tact. The Afro-Germanic doctor's heritage was not in question, not an issue. What Ezinwa referred to you was the old belief held yet by some that the child of mixed birth must choose a kindred race. The individual is not called upon to reject his or her caucazoid mother or father. But he cannot share the fate of both, the True and the False. A choice must be made. Ezinwa wondered if Kaufmann even knew of this folkway.
"The success of our venture means there will soon be many more of these submissive homosexuals," said Kaufmann, giving no indication of having taken offense. "Their number will increase until it attains epidemic proportions. The white man's institutions will collapse due to the spread of a virulence their scientists refused to acknowledge out of cowardice and shame. Our people will be forced to take the reins of government. Martial law will be imposed. The scales of Justice will be balanced."
"That was exactly what the albino stranger proposed not yet a month ago. My article, he claimed, gave him the assurance that I would at least consider playing a part in his project. I asked what that project might be. He replied with a query: `What have you heard of the Faggot Apocalypse?' As if it were perfectly customary for an odd-looking fellow to mysteriously appear in my private office and ask such a forthright question, I reported what little I actually knew. When I was in college, I frequented Afro-centric bookstores where I browsed through a few books on the subject, along with books about the Black Illuminati, pyramid theories, and the Nuwaubianists. I was curious about all things, but I was not seeking something to believe in. I was interested in knowing what others believe. The mind of man is a mystery that must be made to give up its secrets. As far as the Faggot Apocalypse was concerned, it was one of many myths devised to make sense of senseless realities."
"A senseless myth is precisely what it is," Kaufmann huffed. "An old story. We have new stories now. Yet even superstition can be turned to our advantage. The conspiracy theorists have turned their back on science. They're waiting for an apocalypse that will never come to pass unless men like you and I do our part."
"So we shall, so we shall," said Ezinwa, indulgently. "However, don't be so certain we are not hastening the arrival of that which has already arisen. Have you not observed how many more inverts there are of late? Not only are there more of them, but their agenda has expanded. Upon a time, they lurked in dark and sordid places. Now they seek to infiltrate every well-lit aspect of decent society. They take advantage of our tolerance. They want us to condone their romantic unions, invite them into our locker rooms and arenas, and allow them to adopt our children. You cannot tell me that is not an apocalyptic turn of events."
"I should like to meet this albino of yours," said Kaufmann. "This is the one who provided my contact information, is he not? I wonder how he came by that."
"I do not know. We spoke of other things. He was interested in my research into the epidemiology of NEP. He asked me how was it transmitted. I explained that most psychologists claim jungle fever' as a psychological aberration absent a true somatic catalyst. My theory was that it is not an aberration at all, rather an unexpectedly healthy caucazoid response to the ingestion of African sperm. I dared to speculate that some African sperm is unimaginably more potent than others. Some men might be genetic throwbacks to our first fathers who ruled in paradise one hundred thousand years ago. Their virility was extolled by the Hebrews in their Holy Book. Ezekiel 23:20, I believe. The genitals of Nubian men were large like those of donkeys and their emissions were those of stallions.' I examined the blood of my five patients, but there was no change, no indication of any physiological adaptation to the genetic material...
Ezinwa paused to collect his thoughts and Kaufmann did not breach the momentary silence. "It was then that my uninvited visitor made the most incredible proposition and yet he made it sound altogether reasonable. What if a caucazoid who metabolized Original DNA were to have his fever brought to the boiling point?' he asked. Might that not bring to light what lies hidden? If that essence of the caucazoid's febrile blood could be extracted and tested on others if he were to become the progenitor of an epidemic, would he not indeed be the Scarlet Catamite of lore? Imagine the unstoppable contagion spreading swiftly across the nation, a malady the caucazoids have no defense against because their scientists refused to acknowledge its existence. Consider the chaos which would ensue if every branch of the government were to become preoccupied with an unquenchable thirst for Nubian sperm! Imagine the unstoppable contagion! Every white male in the military, all white policemen, prison guards, bankers, jewelers, teachers, coaches, fathers and sons, all falling to their knees in the presence of True Men, offering all they have to drink from the True Fountain of Life.'"
With a sigh, Ezinwa paused once again. His reflection looked back at him from the dark window pane behind the hanging plants. Recalling the encounter with the albino not only gave him an unexpected chill, it now seemed strange that he could remember every word distinctly. It made the dreamlike visitation all the queerer. Ezinwa turned around to look at Kaufmann again.
"He was cackling, manic with glee, yet I was spellbound. What he had in mind was so fantastical, audacious beyond credulity, and yet so simple a solution to our problem. It was a possibility, at least. There was no risk in trying, I told myself. The stranger's countenance changed. He said to me in a tone that was neither command nor question. "You can make this happen." It was a statement of fact. The conviction in his voice had me convinced. There was a very good possibility the entire caucazoid race could be brought to its knees, literally and figuratively, but for one problem. I can test the blood of every invert who comes to me for therapy and treatment,' I said, but finding one with sufficient levels of the NEP component to synthesize a pathogen may take months, perhaps years.' He replied: `I will commend the Scarlet Catamite into your care in seventeen days.' Before I could speak, he pressed into my hand a slip of paper with your name and address. He told me you would know what to do. He said you were expecting to hear from me. "Seventeen days," I was reminded. "Seventeen days!" He gave me explicit instructions on how to proceed.
The next thing that I knew, I was waking up at my desk. There was sand in my eyes. I must have fallen asleep. It must all have been a dream. A very vivid dream with disturbing implications. Then, I felt the slip of paper in my grasp and I knew it was not a dream. It was real. A dream that was real, just as we will transubstantiate a myth into reality."
"And you have no idea who this man was?
"It's elegant in a way," said Dr. Kaufmann, "that the key to changing the world should be something so inconspicuous." He brought forth a glass slide from a small wooden box with little brass hinges. His thick, brown fingers held it to the lamp. "It's like a delicate red petal painted on glass."
"May I see it?" asked Ezinwa.
"There is not much else to see unless it's under a microscope."
"Tell me what you saw."
"That's just it," said Kaufmann, removing his glasses to polish them with a handkerchief. His small, black eyes looked porcine without the magnifying lenses. "I'm not certain what I saw. Were you listening earlier when I spoke of becoming acquainted with that unsettled feeling when something occurs..."
"Which you cannot rationally explain," Ezinwa completed the sentence. "Yes, I was listening. I wondered what you meant by that."
"When I studied the subject's blood under a microscope, I saw an abnormality so extraordinary that inconceivable is the only word to describe it. It was fascinating to observe, and yet I could not believe my eyes. I had the feeling I was watching something... I don't know how to describe it but were I at home in the Black Forest, the term `unheimliches gefühl' would surely suffice. I would have scoffed at your tale of the white-skinned stranger -- like a dream, did you say -- had I not experienced the selfsame sensation."
"What did you see?" Ezinwa examined the glass slide. It seemed both innocuous and innocent, like a red rose petal, this precious droplet of life-force from the faggot's febrile veins.
"There were strange, black corpuscles that behaved as if they had no molecular weight which is outlandish. Newer erythrocytes and leukocytes were being locked into orbit as if the invasive corpuscles were black suns. I cannot explain why that would happen. Nor why they seemed to pulsate and throb before coating the red and white blood cells with cytoplasm. I have never seen anything like it. It defies everything we know about blood physiology."
"Have you no idea whatsoever?"
"I don't know," Kaufmann shrugged almost imperceptibly. Like many large men who might appear to be clumsy, he was capable of precise, fastidious movements. "The blackness suggests a rich concentration of melanin. The cytoplasm might contain polymerized amino acids or nucleic strands of genetic material. It's foolhardy to speculate without further testing, and even then, I have my doubts we will ever have all the answers."
"If my theory is correct," said Ezinwa, "those black corpuscles carry the DNA of the Nubian sperm ingested by the caucazoid on his nightly forays. Do you realize what that means? Many Ages of Man have risen and fallen since the Original Man strode the earthly paradise, but his seed has not died out. It stirs from generation to generation, looking to see if the time is right for the Original Man to return. That day is very nearly upon us. Our grandsons shall know the supreme vigor of body and mind that made us gods. We will doubtlessly appear as weak and frail to them as the caucazoids are to us. But they will honor their forefathers and a new day will dawn."
"I was able to extract the corpuscles, enough to synthesize four doses of the pathogen. It must be tested, of course, on four heterosexual caucazoids, but I have an intuitive confidence in its efficacy. It will work. What I saw under the microscope convinced me that anything is possible."
"Do you still not believe in the supernatural?"
"No," said Kaufmann, obdurately crossing his arms. "There is science we have yet to understand. There is science we will never understand. But no science transcends the Laws of Nature."
"And yet I seek to understand," said Ezinwa. "I want to know! I want to expose and penetrate this mystery! I want to wrest the truth from it."
"We are in accord. I do not like not having answers. But we shall have some soon. I, too, was approached by a stranger. Not so fantastical as yours, it relieves me to say, at least not in appearance, but he is a strange one. Rather given to ornate speeches and goes by the unlikely name of Sir Ebonn Blackthorn. He knew that you would contact me. Ergo, he and the albino are colluding. Even as we speak, he is arranging for a quartet of heterosexual male caucazoids to participate in the experiment."
"Of their own free will?"
"Of course not. If they have foreknowledge of the pathogen's effects it might compromise the results. We will want to record the incubation period and measure the entire concatenation of developmental changes to the smallest degree."
"Good. It will be interesting to see how long it takes for them to begin craving the genitals of Superior Men. The pathogen redirects their libido and maximizes its intensity many times over, but how will it affect their minds, I wonder? The inverts are predisposed to submissive behavior. What will be the reaction of a heterosexual caucazoid when he becomes obsessed with the compulsion to be used as a hole for African cock? I look forward to this experiment."
"Have you wondered how the pathogen will affect wenches of their race? Would that not be a sight to see, a world full of white women begging to be taken? Submissive, obedient whores with their mouths and thighs agape." Kaufmann palmed his crotch.
"Begging to be taken, I can see," said Ezinwa, dryly. "Submissive and obedient remains to be seen."
"You may be right. Listen, I have a thought. The hour is not late. Why not summon your little, blond patient with the curvaceous buttocks? He will brave the tempest at your command. He is probably thinking about us right now."
"He probably is," chuckled Ezinwa. "He is most likely pummeling his hole with the dildo."
"What is there not to appreciate about a hole whose best friend is a black rubber phallus?" Kaufmann chortled. "Yes, summon the whore. I want to take this American faggot before we send him away. Have you had a chance to analyze his response to corporal punishment? I have found that most homosexuals are reluctant to disclose their innate masochism without some coaxing."
"I have not given it much thought. It is worth pursuing if what you say is true, so long as the patient is not harmed."
As if offended, Kaufmann winced. "No harm shall come to the faggot."
The psychiatrist wondered if his colleague's rationalizations were not ironically intended or did he seek to justify his own predilections? It was of no material consequence. Ezinwa had known brothers like Conrad Kaufmann before, men of cruel and violent tastes.
There was said to be an exquisitely thin line between pleasure and pain. And it was a testament of human record that Euro-American caucazoids have a fetish for bondage and torture surpassed only by the Japanese.
"My family is expecting me," said Ezinwa. "I am already late for dinner."
"I don't wish to keep you from your family."
"They can wait a little longer," Ezinwa decided. His "bura" was stirring. As the shaft enlarged, the hooded foreskin pulled down to expose hypersensitive erogenous tissue to cotton fabric. He felt a familiar tingle of excitement that threatened to become an urgent demand for satisfaction his beloved wife did not deserve. Best to get this out of his system now. Put the faggot to good use.
Ezinwa took out his phone. Fulgurate lightning crackled outside the window and the lights flickered. Thunder exploded like cannon fire. It was as if they were in the middle of a war, caught between elemental forces. The room plunged into darkness. Lightning and thunder. The lights came back on.
"The battery is dead," said Ezinwa, looking at his reliable instrument in dismay. "Most unusual. Why don't we postpone our celebration for tomorrow when Obo returns? He will be only too eager to accommodate us for the next two days. I may ask another of my patients to supplement his service."
"I look forward to tomorrow, then, with mounting anticipation," the physician acquiesced.
Ezinwa turned off the lights and together they exited the room. As the elevator doors opened for them, Ezinwa suddenly remembered leaving his phone behind. He hastily bade his confederate "Godspeed" and returned at once to his office.
There was the cell phone where he left it on the desk. Beside it was a long-stemmed black rose with long, black thorns that had not been there before. Ezinwa muttered strong expletive in his native tongue.
The drive home was slow and arduous due to poor visibility and flooding until he surpassed the city limits. The curtain of rain dwindled behind him. By the time he pulled into the driveway of his split-level ranch in the hills, there was not a wisp of cloud. A thin crescent moon hung overhead like a silver sickle and brilliant stars like diamond dust were strewn across the velvet sky. Crickets chirped.
Solar-powered pathway lights illumined his way. Ezinwa skirted two bicycles lying on their sides that belonged inside the garage. Tonight, he would not lose his temper. Eight-year-old Odafe and ten-year-old Udeme Junior were certainly fast asleep.
Waiting up for him was his wife, Ndidi. He took her in his strong arms. Her ripe, glossy lips tasted like blackberries. She was as soft and lovely as the first time they met, the prettiest and smartest girl in the entire school. They were kindred spirits. Pet names and marital endearments were superfluous for them.
Ndidi heated her husband's dinner and spoke of her day while he picked at the meal in silence. The boys had soccer practice and needed new sneakers, the cable was out again, her parents were stopping over in August on their second honeymoon to Hawaii, the new paperboy was racist and needed to be dealt with like the one before him, and she was certain that she felt another kick from both of the twins.
At that last remark, Udeme Ezinwa looked up and smiled at his radiant wife. She put his hand on her belly the size of a beach ball. He felt the quick of life within her stirring wondrously. "I think they are both boys," he confidently announced.
"You have always been right before," Ndidi conceded.
"When I was a boy," he told her, not for the first time and not for the last, "a gypsy foretold my future. She predicted that I would marry a princess and have many, many sons."
"My father grew crops."
"Your father owns the largest coffee plantation in our region and his last name is Adeyemi, `fit to be king,' which makes you a princess!"
They had this exchange many times over the years. One of the things Ndidi loved about her husband was that he was always right. He was the head of their household as she was its heart. He held the last word as she always ventured the first. This equilibrium came easily and naturally.
No love was made that night, but Ezinwa held his wife close to him.
The next morning, he showered and dressed. When Ndidi saw him in his suit and tie, she knit her brow. He did not usually go into work on Saturdays. "I have to meet with a colleague," he apologized. "It won't take long. Tell the boys we're going shopping for sneakers when I get back, and then ice cream if they behave themselves."
Behind the wheel of his car, Ezinwa absently took out his recharged phone and brought up the application for Dustin's vibrating butt plug. The squeal Dustin let out the first time it went off after he was obliged to get dressed in front of Vanessa still made the psychiatrist smile. It would always be amusing, but Ezinwa meant what he said. A sucker of cocks should be inured to shame. Only a proud Man with something to lose can know the slap of humiliation.
"In the quaint parlance of my American brethren, if the little faggot is still asleep, this should wake his ass," said Ezinwa aloud. How could anyone accuse him of not having a sense of humor? With a sly smile, he activated the remote control vibrator at its highest setting. Then, he turned the key in the ignition and drove back to the city.
TO BE CONTINUED. . . .