Page 30 of The Bairwick Witches
Schuyler looked at Issac, and without exchanging words, Issac nodded, continuing to satisfy his desires. Schuyler nodded. The Lwa smiled. Papa ran his hand along the length of his wet shaft, pushing it down between Issac’s cheeks. The bulbous head bullied its way inside.
Schuyler throbbed at the sight of Papa pushing deeper, until all ten glorious inches disappeared, reappeared, and vanished again, matching his rhythm to the steady progression of the drums. The voices of the disembodied singers rose, encouraging Papa.
Issac ceased pleasuring Schuyler to focus on being penetrated. Sky reached under Issac, grabbed his rigid penis, and began to stroke, moving in time with the instructive beat of the music. Within his sexual delirium, Issac kissed on any part of Schuyler’s body he came in contact with. Clawing at Sky’s chest as he tried to wiggle away from the pounding, too overwhelmed to form the words to request a break he in truth did not want, endlessly moaning, crying out. Papa’s grip on his waist held him firmly in place. There was no intention of releasing him until all were finished.
Schuyler kissed Issac as passionately and lovingly as he could, trying to usher in contrast to the indifferent pounding he received, while continuing to coax the offering out of him. The rising wet slaps of their bodies rose above the frenetic drums and singers.
Issac began to wriggle and buck, his orgasm growing closer. Schuyler slid the silver tray with the coffin nail underneath Issac. Papa howled as his hips thrust forward with each ferocious beat of the drums. The singers rose in intensity, ready to bring the song home.
Issac cried out when Papa hit his prostate, right as Schuyler brought his hand up in a forward stroke, and the orgasm overtook the young man. Convulsing as he erupted, his offering shooting onto the coffin nail. Schuyler, enamored by the sight of Issac’s propulsive orgasm—the young man’s body still convulsing, still shooting—bequeathed his own offering upon the nail in tandem.
Papa used Issac for a few more moments, savoring the ass which he dominated, before stepping back and blessing the nail with a copious amount of his own offering.
As the drums faded out, the singers reduced to a low hum; the shack went silent except for the labored breathing of those spent and exhausted lying on its floor.
“What was that?” Issac asked, finally regaining his breath as they composed themselves and redressed. Papa Oddie applied an herbal salve to Issac’s rear, ensuring no lingering discomfort, only echoes of the pleasurable.
“That,” Papa said with a laugh, now himself once again, “was Voodou.”
As he led them back through the sugar-cane trail, Papa Oddie placed the now twice-blessed coffin nail into a bubble—the same kind of trinket Sister Superiora had crafted—and handed it to Issac. “You asked about cemetery dirt as well? I have many, but I need more information. Cemetery or grave? You must be specific.”
Issac grabbed his phone and pulled up the note where he’d written the information. “My uncle wrote ‘and a handful of dirt from the Spyder Gates Cemetery. Crossroads preferably, but hey, I’m not a picky witch, I’ll take whatever.” Issac slid his phone back in his pocket and rubbed his slightly sore rear as he followed them.
“My apologies. I can assist no further. I have only dirt from surrounding cemeteries and a few specific graves.” He laughed softly, placing his arm around Schuyler. “Oh, my love, bad news.”
Schuyler shuddered to think. “What?”
“I know who recently came into a collection of cemetery dirt.”
“Would they be willing to help?” Issac asked.
Papa laughed again. “Indeed, but that is not the question. The question is: will you accept their help?”
Schuyler stopped the parade back to the market, demanding to know what Orenthal meant.
“My love, the dirt is with Az.”
Schuyler, who’d been riding a true high since the threesome, felt all those good feelings vanish at the mention of one name: Azrael.
“Fuck.”
Chapter Twelve
Azrael Arceneaux raised a sleek, manicured eyebrow above the sparks coming off the welding torch he held close to his unprotected face the moment Schuyler spotted him upon arriving at the barn Azrael had reclaimed into a multifloored art studio. Azrael cocked his head back, licking his thin lips into a welcoming smile.
Artist, activist, and Schuyler’s ex, Azrael had carved out a niche spot in the art world for themselves. Never hid his sexuality, his identity, or his craft. His art moved—and offended—in every form of media he dabbled in, and as such, he’d stretched fifteen minutes of fame into thirty, gaining no small amount of notoriety. Interviews, magazine covers—he even claimed to be friends with Stevie Nicks for a time—but the full shine of such celebrity had dulled.
Azrael was volatile, hot-headed, and dedicated only to himself, art, advocacy, and sex. They dated briefly when Schuyler was in his mid-thirties. Their sex was hot and intense every time—a tryst in a bathroom once burnt down a truck stop in Tuscaloosa. Schuyler lost himself with Azrael, easilyregressing to his wild twenties anytime he was with Rae, his personal term of endearment for Azrael.
From the deep south, Cajun born, bayou raised, Azrael maintained a firm grip on the dark magic that made him ooze gothic sensuality. His angelic yet angular face, sharp, with a spotty yet seductive beard, and a slim, fit, hairy body to match. Tatted and pierced, with dark eyes and thick hair, he possessed an even thicker accent—one that could open anyone’s legs after five minutes of conversation. It was a drawl he had never lost, despite not having lived in the South for over a decade.
Their relationship had lasted a steamy and eventful year before Schuyler called it off. The crew Azrael ran with were on another level, and as much as Schuyler enjoyed a good time, a full-time party-lifestyle and a writer’s lifestyle did not mesh.
There had been an incredible amount of fun in the year they dated, but the low times, especially the fights, were epic and often. Even when warranted, Sky did not have the stomach for fighting; he’d heard too much of it from his parents before living with Beau and Marshall. He would throw down, if pushed—and Rae’s irrational, dark magic-filled states did push him.
The breakup wasn’t as messy as Schuyler had feared. The friction and anger he expected then arrived a couple of years later, when he fully ended the sexual side of their relationship. Their sex had become an addiction he needed rehab from. Rae made his displeasure over losing his lover clear, throwing curses and nearly threatening Schuyler to a duel.
With time, tempers faded, anger cooled, but their yearning for one another never ceased. They found a way to coexist, and every so often, the Goddesses placed them in each other’s path. Schuyler had not expectedthisto be one of those times. Not with Issac along. Certainly not post-threesome with a Voodou Priest.
