“enchanté mon amie…”
By some supernatural cue, the atmosphere in the limousine changes from a thick sexual tension where this psycho witch threatens to disembowel us at any second, into a far different feeling where her ethereal sexual charms overcome our misgivings and the air becomes charged with excitement.
Lady Minx smiles. I study her intently as the black hash smoke swirls around us creating weird personifications of mythical animals best left unseen.
Minx is perhaps the most overtly sexual, and at the same time, creepy woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of crossing paths with—and believe me, I’ve seen some doozies. Her sexuality is more than eccentric; it’s not of any garden variety. No way—she isn’t pretty exactly, or mildly erotic, or even attractive in any sense of the word. No, her beauty is so repellent, it says, “I’ve seen horrors too terrible to imagine, debaucheries too perverse, nightmares so maddening they’d make Francis Bacon scream REDRUM, piss his pants, and cry for his mommie like a snot-nosed punk.” No, she has the “I get off on pigeon bones and blood” variety. Her beauty recalls the rot all things must surrender to in death. That’s her. That’s the Lady Minx. Her smack-addict physique hints at malnutrition despite her tiny reptilian potbelly indicating she’s ate an entire chicken this morning. Her reeking “slut butter” BO tells us her hands have recently been to the wilds of her vagina and she probably fingers herself all day. Her thrift store fashion is a religion in itself, which tells of something diabolical churning deep inside her, like an innocent looking into an abyss. Like Nietzsche, her abyss stares back. She’s perverse in the most horrific alien extreme. I’ve seen some crazy shit in my time, but her sexuality threatens to make me pull my hair out, stab a pencil into my eye, and enjoy doing it.
Yes, I take this woman very seriously.
As I assess her, she takes an immediate shine to True. It seems like the hashish smoke has begun to do her bidding; the personifications animate around True as if they’re making love to her. It’s like some weird bestiality scenario.
For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, but then I get frightened because maybe—just maybe—the smoke is actually doing her will and I’m not seeing things.
She touches True’s kinky hair as if it were a golden prize.
I think of Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin. This sends chills down my spine.
“u gotta da pretty hair maya thompson…” She whispers as she strokes it.
True looks uncomfortable but she says nothing.
“aye betch u gotta pretty down be-low too…” She snickers and then adds, “we gonna make da sexy hoodoo luv… yu… me… and da vicky one…”
At this, she casually removes her dress. I’m not shocked. I’ve seen tits before. And for her, she seems relieved, as if she’s more comfortable without clothing. I will admit; this crazy woman is something to behold. Her skin is the color of licorice. Her breasts are small but the tiny dark nipples stand high like Hershey’s Kisses. Her legs are impossibly long; it takes me several moments to span their length.
At this, she turns to me with a wicked smile. It disarms me and I feel charmed by her magic. She does the same to True. Our situation recalls the snake and charmer story, although I’m not certain which of us is the snake.
Now, we’re her playthings.
“now, da laydee minx gonna do da magic spell… now da laydee minx gonna do da west afrikah dahomeyan vodun… haaaaaaaaaaaa…” She hisses ‘ha’ as if the word has special meaning, like a word of gods.
I’m scared shitless but I can’t resist. As True and I start to mechanically stroke her lovely body, Lady Minx taps on the window of the limo. As if in a dream, I hear someone open the trunk, some shuffling ensues, and then the trunk closes. Next, I hear some footsteps, and then the door of the limo opens. The sun violently shreds the darkness of our sanctuary and I instantly feel an affinity for vampires. A gargantuan silhouette, the chauffeur Blind Tiger, hands Minx a cage. In it, shuffles around a tiny varmint. It’s a young nutria; a type of aquatic rat.
“we gotta make da gris-gris… like da voodoo queen marie laveau… da people visit er grave more den dat white singin man elvis presley… an he hadda demone en dat boy…”
Inside I snicker at her comment about the King, but all the while I stroke the witch’s body dreading to see what will happen to the tiny creature in the cage.
Next, she reaches under her seat and produces a few items: a Swiss army knife, white chalk, and a tiny paper cup. With supernatural agility she opens the cage, sweeps up the rat, and in one clean motion—like she’s done this a million times before—she slits the poor beast’s throat.
She bleeds the nutria’s running ichor into the cup and then quickly discards the beast like a used tissue. As I continue to fondle her, I notice the cup is actually a Buzz Lightyear Dixie cup. This realization adds to the macabre horror of the scene.
She reaches her clean hand under the seat again and brings out a small vial of milky white liquid. Is it sperm? Breast milk? Some other foul bodily fluid? Who knows? She pours some of the greasy solution onto her hand which acts like a painter’s palette. She uses the runny greasepaint to place arcane markings and letters upon her breasts and chest. She orders us to remove our clothing and we heed her command like zombies without objection. She traces symbols on our bodies too. My imagination runs wild while her cold fingers trace our contours and it feels as if the devil has touched us.
After she finishes her chore, she uses the nutria blood to draw a crooked six-pointed star on the floor of the limo. I think to myself, “Boy, that’s going to cost a pretty penny to get that shit out the upholstery.” It’s at this time that I notice a similar faded marking on the ceiling of the vehicle and another on the bench seat across from us. I guess she’s been busy.
Lady Minx says a bunch of Creole gibberish neither of us understands and then everything changes.
In a dreamy haze, as if I’m witnessing the event from outside my body, we begin to make love. It’s a strange time, like a demented Girls Gone Wild New Orleans. Lady Minx obviously prefers True because she focuses her sexual curiosity on my young lover. I don’t feel jealous. I feel scared. I’m worried what will happen when this whole weird incident comes to its conclusion.
In a wicked voice, as if she was channeling some demon Minx says, “now missy maya u gonna give me dat filet-o-fish between da pretty leg… and ah I gonna suck out da fishy bones…”
Her comment is so wrong I almost can’t believe she said it.
She positions herself between True’s spread legs.
“gimme da wet pussy, pleez…” And with that, she dives in.
As I mechanically finger the voodoo lady’s bottom, obscene slurping sounds fill the limo, and True’s moans increase in desperation. The one-way windows thankfully conceal this satanic sexual ritual from bystanders. But I have to admit it’s hot thinking people are passing the limo with no idea of what shenanigans are going on inside. This is a strange experience and I feel conflicting emotions. On one hand, this whole event is sexier than Ozzy biting the head off a vampire bat. On the other, I feel like it’s going to take a long time to wipe this shit from memory.
The slurping increases. True orgasms. I fist the witch. And the spell comes to conclusion.
Lady Minx leans back from True’s soaked cunt exhausted from her spell casting, and says, “now, aye gonna take u do da german… but first we grab da chicken fo eatin…”