Nothing I'm about to do is meant to be taken personally. We Cajuns of South Remeau have nothing against our neighbors in the eastern section of the town. What I'm about to do is all in the name of friendly community competition. That's all.

Eighteen-year-old Kevin Lacombe was thinking this to himself as he traversed towards the homes of the mainly Creole residents of South Remeau. He was trying hard to rationalize what he was about to do. He was clad in a pair of cut-off jeans, was sneaker-footed, and his silky skin was white with a delicate pinkish hue. His sculpted body and square shoulders were imposing and solid. His flat tummy, along with his budding calf and thigh muscles, were also impressive. His hair was golden-brown, bleached by the sun to be the color of barley. His eyes, through exotically long lashes, were aquamarine blue. This boy looked like a displaced angel.

But Kevin Lacombe was no angel, and his actions today would prove this conclusively. With a spray-paint can in his hand and uncertainty in his heart, the eighteen-year-old ambled purposely towards his destination. And though this youth had every intention of performing an act of criminal childishness, he couldn't dispute certain facts. One fact in particular was that he didn't really want to vandalize any of the homes in East Remeau, but the gang of boys to whom he held a tentative friendship had demanded that he perform this vile rite. It was an act that would garner him the privilege of being officially initiated into their ranks. The fact that many of the homes in this section of town were owned by Creole blacks was not a major factor in his gang's decision to target it. In their heart of hearts it was all South Remeau versus East Remeau ... nothing more.

Yes, this deferential youth was concerned about causing trouble in the Eastern portion of town. He'd heard that it was ruled by the Bayou Bitches, a bevy of hard-core single mothers and women whose men were away working in more economically prosperous parishes. Kevin had driven through their portion of town once, and to the eighteen-year-old the women he saw seemed to be the epitome of dark mystery, of lushness, of forbidding beauty that verged on the sinister. He would later discover that the women if East Remeau really WERE sinister. Sinister, murderous, sexually perverted dominatrixes who would as soon kill a man as fuck him.

Young Kevin had been born on the Southern section of bayou ... just like his friends. But until the death of his mother and father he had been reared and educated in a more affluent parish thirty miles to the north. Now his parents were dead, and he was back in East Remeau ... basically a stranger to the area now. A young stranger who desperately needed friends. He was so despairing for companionship that he'd taken up with the likes of the "Seigneur Supplicier", a group of prankish Cajun youths whose name, when translated, meant the "Torture Lords".

Yes, it had been a rough year for Kevin Lacombe.

He remembered how he'd reacted to the news that his parents had lost their lives on some rain-slicked street in Lafayette. He remembered how he'd wept, bear-hugging the policeman on the porch of his home, shamelessly burying his face into the officer's cotton shirt, while the policeman patted him awkwardly and tried his best not to curse aloud over the fact that the boy was mottling his uniform with tears and snot.

After this, Kevin's life began to move in a fast-forward blur. He was returned to Remeau and, upon coming to grips with the indifference of his wretched grandfather, became a prime target for initiation into the Seigneur Supplicier.

And he had been gallivanting about with this wannabe gang for close to a week now, but only today had they decided to fully initiate him into their ranks. A letter had arrived for him at his grandfather's home that morning ... a letter ordering him to meet at the house of one of the gang's members. There had been no time to think, no time to really ponder what the initiation process consisted of; blind obedience was all Kevin could manage. And it was with blind obedience that he entered a ramshackle house on Hogan Street.

Five youths were inside that house. Five youths clad in cut-off jeans, similar canvas Converse All-Star sneakers and somewhat dingy white athletic socks. For a moment there was silence in the living room, then this roguish quintet abruptly sat down on pre-arranged chairs and began to strip naked

"This is your first test, Lacombe," said one of Seigneur, capriciously stroking his cock through his jeans. "My Daddy always taught me that you're closest to the men in your cadre after you have partaken of the flesh together, no?"

Kevin had heard this expression before, and was smart enough to know that it was a statement that was not meant to be taken literally. Still, he didn't argue about it. The new recruit was given a drink, which he immediately swallowed. He would later learn that the concoction was Red River Wine, a potent aphrodisiac brewed by hoo-doo conjure women from New Orleans.

And no sooner had Kevin finished the drink, Ian Maciel pounced upon him ... savagely pulling off his shirt, and tugging down his jeans and underwear. Ian, the leader of the Seigneur Supplicier, had hair that was more golden than Kevin's. The gangleader's thatch was the palest silk-spun blond. He was also so handsome and muscled that his inate evil was often obscured.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Kevin asked timorously as Ian positioned himself behind him.

Ian spoke in a soothing tone of voice. And as he spoke he harshly ... but not fatally ... stabbed at Kevin's back and ass with an ice-pick, all the while beginning a relentless forward motion with his non-lubricated dick. Kevin's mind was a fog of panic-ridden images. This was the most horrendous thing he could think of. Ian was fucking his ass!

And with his panic-filled heart beating a thousand beats a second, Kevin felt the discomfort in his ass grow ... as well as the sting of the sharp, but superficial, gashes the ice-pick was making on his skin.

The deferential youth's response to being fucked amazed Ian. Instead of pulling away from him, Kev was pressing backwards, his eyes scrunched shut in a desperate attempt to suppress the pain and fright. Ian watched, fascinated as the mushroom shaped head of his cock began to make headway against the natural resistance of the deferential youth's anal sphincter. He felt the pucker of new recruit's asshole against the sensitive tissues at the tip of his cock; he felt and saw the opening beginning to spread wide to accommodate its perimeter.

He heard Kevin moan, and then cry out ... his body trembling with terror and intense pain as the blond gangleader's ridge passed through the ring of muscle at the new recruit's anal opening. For Kevin's part, he felt a slowly building pressure and intense agony. Ian's non preparations were the main reason for this, and the non-lubrication assured a brutal savage passage of the gangleader's cockhead through the new recruit's anal opening. And there was that unbearable stab of pain as the widest part of the head finally breached the deferential boy's fortifications.

Having gained entrance for the thickest part of his prick, Ian stopped for a moment, still stabbing Kevin's flanks and ass with the ice-pick, just holding himself still otherwise and listened to the new recruit moan in agony. An unwilling participant in sex provided him with more sexual stimulation than a willing one. He meant for the deferential youth to have a powerful, yet painful and humiliating, orgasm and he would use this as a springboard for his own climax.

He looked down where his cock penetrated Kevin's ass and, instead of adding lubrication to his shaft, he attached a ferocious-looking barbed rubber condom. And he used this barbaric attachment to push forward quickly ... brutally allowing the hapless youth to feel every sharp quill along the callous prophylactic. His forward motion would not stop now until he was fully seated in the new recruit's ass, his balls resting against the bloody quagmire which Kev's scrotum had become.

A flood of more intense pain burned across Kevin's consciousness as he felt the thick invader press and slice against the walls of his rectum. He had never felt such agony. It was like a fiery sword had been shoved up his backside, torching him from the inside out. He was in a haze of pain by the time Ian, with his barbed prophylactic-adorned cock still wedged in his as, forced him over to a dirty mattress in the corner of the room and the two of them fell face-down upon it.

Kev clenched his fists when he felt Ian begin a slow stroking motion with his newly-barbed dick. Ian pulled back until just the head was lodged behind Kev's anal ring, then pushed back inside, faster this time ... cutting and pummeling the new recruit's depths. In and out with long, deliberate, brutal strokes ... Ian pumped his ass, feeling the new recruit clench along his length and girth as he screamed for mercy ... screamed himself hoarse. Still the Red River Wine he had been given was working, for despite the fact that he was in torment, his cock had become fully erect and was pulsating with unbelievable sexual energy.

Ian pushed Kevin down, keeping his barbed cock firmly lodged in his backside, until the recruit was laying flat on the mattress, his fists clenching and unclenching almost spasmodically. Then he moved his legs outside Kev's, pushing his together, and pressing the full length of his cock inside the new recruit's ass. A high, piercing scream escaped Kevin's lips as he felt the incredible pressure of the blond gangleader's thick, barbed stalk cut and slice along the length of his ass channel. Kevin was lost in a fog of white-hot pain.

The new recruit's inevitable orgasms were strung together in a continuous loop of horrific sensations. His asshole burned and throbbed with pain where Ian's barbed cock flew in and out at a furious pace. Kev's bloody scrotum felt seared and pulsated with agony where he felt the leader's hairy ball sack strike him on every pain-ridden stroke. His privates burned and ached horribly and his entire body was a mass of torment ... as if it had become a whole flight of nuclear explosions arcing through the air around him, one apocalyptic explosion after another causing blinding white flashes before his eyes.

Ian felt Kev's orgasms start and then redoubled the strength and speed of his stroking. He was brutally pounding the young recruit, not slowing down even when he saw all the gushing blood. Kevin screamed with each stroke, chanting,


like a pathetic mantra each time Ian's cock bottomed out. The gangleader's thighs hit his ass with a wet slapping sound and Ian's sweat dripped in rivulets on his back as he seemed to labor to completely destroy the new recruit's innards.

Changing tactics, Ian pulled back and stopped. Reaching under Kevin, he pulled the youth back to his knees and then pressed down on his lower back, bringing his ass down to his heels. He then put his hand on the back of Kevin's neck, pushing down and forward so that the young recruit was now curled almost into a fetal position ... and Ian kept his sharply-barbed dick shoved up the youth's ass. Shoving his cock even further inside, Ian was able to go even deeper than before, and he began fucking up into Kev's ass with more long steady strokes.

No longer in control of his body or sexual functions, Kevin quickly began to orgasm again, and was soon screaming with agony upon this new release.

Knowing that a fourth orgasm would probably kill the new recruit, Ian continued to plow Kevin's virgin ass for only a few more minutes. Then, suddenly, he pulled his cock out of the recruit's ass with a loud plopping sound ... causing a scream from Kevin and a splattering of fresh blood everywhere.

"Everyone talks about a sexually dangerous those Bayou Bitches are," Ian said.

He had an overconfident smirk on his handsome face as he took several healthy swigs from a bottle which contained the Red River Wine aphrodisiac,

"Well, wait till they get a load of US!"

Weak as he was, Kevin was unable to do anything except fight to remain conscious. He lay face-down and bleeding while Ian, with still more sexual energy to be rid of, looked towards the other members of the Seigneurs ... trying to decide which of them he would use to gain complete sexual satisfaction.

He settled upon Jamie Richelieu ... a member of their clique who had failed to show bravery during their last foray into the "dark side" of Remeau. Without hesitation the blond gangleader, after forcing Richelieu to take a few swigs of Red River Wine, forced the sandy-haired youth to his knees. Then he rammed his penis, free of the barbed appendage now, into this hapless youth's mouth.

Ian fuck-faced the cowardly sandy-haired youth for a good five minutes, his cock buried to the hilt in Jamie's hot, wet mouth and throat. Then the gangleader let loose, causing a long, continuous blast of his cum to pour into the sandy-haired young coward like a hot river of magma. Ian felt his cock swell to even greater proportions and begin to jerk as a second orgasm overtook him.

"MERCY!!! MERCY!!!!"

Jamie's mental beseeching cries emerged as low pleading moans and grunts as he felt Ian's cock jerk and spit deep inside his throat once again. Oxygen deprivation was beginning to push the sandy-haired lad towards unconsciousness ... and that's when he felt the gangleader lower himself onto him, pressing every last inch of his dick into his face, until Ian felt his balls resting against Jamie's chin. The young coward himself felt these balls twitch as a few more spurts of cum went directly down Jamie's esophagus to his gut where they formed a slimy pool. Finally, however, Ian felt his cock begin to shrink and withdraw, and he felt a profound sense of loss as he pulled out of Jamie. A profound sense of loss ... and an unreasonable sense of anger.

Jamie gasped and coughed a few times, his vision returning to normal after the near asphyxiation he had suffered through. But his sense of despair returned when he saw the look of burning rage in the face of his leader. The sandy-haired coward was now keenly aware that his horrific ordeal was not yet over.

Slowly Ian walked towards him, swaying provocatively, his eyes never leaving the coward's face. He growled, grabbing Jamie's shoulders and pulling him close,

"You little chicken-hearted bitch!"

WHAM! The leader's knee exploded between Jamie's legs like a battering ram, cruelly crushing the young coward's erection. The sandy-haired young man slumped forward with a grunt of pain to be caught by his leader's firm arms. He looked up into Ian's eyes ... the gang leader's mouth was set in a firm smirk. WHAM! His knee pistoned up again into the young coward's groin.

"Oh ... this is better than fucking you," Ian said as he held Jamie upright.

WHAM! The sandy-haired youth's crotch was rammed again.

"Cowardly piece of shit," the gangleader told him, preventing the sandy-haired youth from falling.

WHAM! His knee continued to crush his manhood to pulp.

"Every cry of pain that escapes your lips gets me that much harder!" the leader said.

WHAM! Jamie could hardly feel the blows now over the excruciating agony between his legs. The leader let the youth slump forward then held him so that his torso was leaning at 90 degrees to his legs with Ian's arm wrapped over his neck.

WHAM! his knee buried itself deep in Jamie's gut again. There was an explosion of air from the coward's mouth. He felt the leader's firm arms tighten around his throat to prevent him from falling.


WHAM! His knee rammed his stomach,

"Chicken-shit coward!"

WHAM! With slow calculated precision Ian repeatedly drove his knee hard into Jamie's stomach. Each crushing blow timed to let the sandy-haired youth recover somewhat before the leader drove his knee in again.


"Oh ... this feels so fucking good!"

WHAM! Finally he allowed Jamie to crumple to the ground. The young coward was in agony, his balls hurt and his stomach was a knot of pain. A sharp new ache in his groin made him look up in alarm. Ian was standing over him ... and he had buried his switchblade into Jamie's groin!

"This is it, fucker," the blond gangleader whispered calmly as he began to grind the blade down hard.

The sandy-haired youth screamed his lungs out at the excruciating pain burning through his crotch.

"Shut the fuck up ... nobody can hear you, but us in here." Ian smirked.

He was twisting the switchblade down as though he were driving in a screw. Dark, wet patches of blood spread across the crotch of the coward's jeans as the sharp knife burrowed even deeper.

"Stand up," Ian ordered and he wrenched the blade free.

But Jamie just lay there ... curled up, weeping and bleeding.

WHAM! Ian's foot kicked him full in the face, blood splattering freely as he shattered the coward's nose,

"I said stand the fuck up!" the gangleader screamed menacingly.

Slowly the coward got to his hands and knees pleading,

"Please ... don't hurt me any more. Please ..."

But the leader grabbed Jamie roughly by his sandy hair and pulled him over to a mouth-ridden mattress. After shoving the still weakened Kevin Lacombe off the makeshift bedstead, Ian and Jamie plopped down upon it ... and the gangleader immediately wrapped his legs around the young coward's neck. Jamie's throat was up against the crook of Ian's right leg and his left leg scissored around the back of the sandy-haired youth's neck. The leader squeezed tight and Jamie struggled for breath.

"Bet you're regretting the way you turned tail and ran when our gang was confronted by that street trash from Baton Rouge, eh?" Ian says as Jamie squirms around, his neck held tight.

The sandy-haired young coward feels the denim of his leader's pants legs beneath his hands as he tries to loosen Ian's grip,

"Unnnggghhhh!! Please ...!!!"

The coward gasps and Ian laughs at him.

"I'll bet no one ever got head like this! Get it? Head?" Ian taunts as Jamie struggles uselessly.

The blond gangleader's strong legs cut off the youth's air. Finally, knowing resistance is futile, the coward stops struggling ... praying to expire quickly to ease the torment. But Ian shows no mercy and cruelly twists Jamie's neck from one side of his body to the other. Before the coward can pass out, the leader eases off the pressure slightly to prolong the sandy-haired youth's agony.

Finally Ian releases him, stands up and pulls the coward's head up by the hair on either side of his face to look at him. The steely, hate-filled look in his leader's eyes terrifies him. He stares in helpless horror as Ian's knee speeds towards his face, obscuring his vision as it lands painfully. WHAM! Back it goes only for him to scream as he sees it fire again into his face. WHAM! Slowly Ian's knee mangles Jamie's formerly handsome face into a bloody pulp WHAM! Holding his head up by his sandy hair and with one hand on the back of the coward's neck, Ian drives his knee into the young coward's throat over and over. Eventually he lets Jamie drop to the ground ... his larynx crushed ... his head twisted. Ian then took his switchblade and calmly slit Jamie Richelieu's throat despite the fact that the cowardly youth was already dead.

When the torture had ended and Kevin had sufficiently recovered, the Seigneur Supplicier leader informed the new recruit of the final test he would have to endure in order to officially join their ranks.

He would have to perform an act of terrorism in the Eastern section of Remeau. And if this wasn't bad enough, he would have to perform this act all by himself and it would have to be completed before sunset.

Exploits in lawlessness were nothing new to the Seigneur Supplicier. They entered the fringes of minority-rich East Remeau by night and they exited by night, performing their acts of vandalism beneath the light of the moon. But now the gang was ordering Kevin to deface the home of a resident Eastsider in broad daylight ... his final test to prove himself worthy of being a member of the Seigneur Supplicier.

"I can't do that!" Kevin protested, "That's suicide. That's "

Before the new recruit could utter another word of protest, he felt what must have been a fist strike the side of his head. He felt a blinding flash of pain flare in his cranium, then several punches in his stomach and midsection. After two punches to the face, Kevin fell to the floor and felt the world begin to spin sickeningly.

That was when he took a sidelong glance and saw the body of the coward, Jamie Richelieu. The sandy-haired youth lay small and broken in the corner of the room near the mattress pile. His face was a disfigured mess. His head faced the wrong way, Kevin noted, and the young coward's neck was snapped. There was a small pool of blood under his lacerated throat, drying slowly on the floor.

By the time Kevin came to grips with how truly dire his situation was, the deferential recruit was more than willing to go through with completing his final gang initiation test. He was too frightened not too.

And these "friends" of his had already spent the previous few days verbally assaulting and harassing the more reticent-natured members East Remeau's populace ... shouting epithets while zipping by in their cars and setting abandoned structures ablaze. And these minor acts of terrorism were indeed beginning to put their gang on the map.

So now, with his trusty can of blue spray-paint in hand, the still bruised and battered deferential Kevin was going to spell out his gang's dislike for the Eastsiders more distinctly. He leaped over the fence leading to one of the resident's backyards and crept cautiously through some ornamental planting until he reached the driveway and a clear section of mustard yellow wall located just below one of the house's high den windows.

Giving the spray-paint can a good shake, he went to work immediately ... scrawling a huge racially and sexually offensive epithet. He scrawled the letters awkwardly, for he was still considerably dizzy as a result of the thrashing (and fucking) his "friends" had given him earlier. He surveyed his work and was in the process of replacing the cap on the can when he heard something behind him.

But before Kevin could react, even before he could so much as yalp in surprise, a hand latched onto his jeans and hauled him up to the point where his feet weren't even able to touch the ground. The youth swung out at his captor, but his bawled fists seemed to bounce off granite.

Then he got his first look at Moesha Bordeaux. Six foot something in heels. Delicate-looking hands that still felt as if they could crush his skull like an eggshell. Humongus breasts. Dark brown skin ... equally dark brown eyes. Dark brown eyes that were full of an understandable rage.

Kevin knew that his female captor was clearly one of the Bayou Bitches ... despite the fact that she wasn't wearing the attire associated the murderous dominatrix organization; the leather face-concealing mask, the whip, the strap-on dildo and so on.

This woman herself was well-aware that East Remeau had experienced a series of break-ins and attacks of vandalism. A pack of rascals had always been spotted dashing across the main avenue. These rapscallions were Cajun critters from the south-side ... critters who looked just like the youth she was currently keeping subdued.

Calming herself a bit, Moesha Bordeaux focused her eyes more intently upon Kevin.

It was easy enough to hold the boy in place. The young man was weak due to his visual injuries, and perhaps others she couldn't see. Then she glanced at Kevin's bruised face. The captive's blue eyes currently held a look of animosity that no young man's eyes should have. And yet Moesha, as a black Creole/Cajun woman, had seen that look often in many sets of blue eyes ... growing up in the South as she did. But never had she seen it in the eyes of a fellow Cajun, blue or otherwise.

Both anger and bafflement stirred within her, but she keep her grip firm. She would not give this young man the chance to run away until she got some answers.

"I don't seem to recognize you, boy ... where did you come from?"

"I was only fooling around! Get your fucking hands off me!"

"Makin' demands? Boy, do you know how easy it would be to snap your fool neck? You're lucky that I'm just gon' call the police."

Kevin grew pale. His stomach flip-flopped, and he broke out into a cold sweat. He had clearly never been so frightened in his life. He almost began to weep,

"I told you I was only fooling around! What's the big deal?"

"What's your name?" Moesha asked the deferential youth.

"Kevin," the boy, too frightened to lie, replied immediately, "Kevin Lacombe."

Moesha was surprised, for the handsome boy didn't sound like he had been reared anywhere near the bayou. She scrutinized his bruises and cuts more intently,

"What the hell happened to you?"

Kevin spat at Moesha. Then he casually kicked the bistro manager in the shins as hard as he could. He hated striking a woman, but his captor was a Bayou Bitch woman who were alleged to be twice as strong as the average male. But despite the rumor of legendary strength and invulnerability, the hard rubber soles of the boy's sneakers did cause the woman some pain when he kicked her.

And Moesha responded to the pain by inflicting pain of her own. She grabbed her young captive's muscled arm, twisted it behind him.

"Yeeeowww!!" Kevin cried painfully as his arm was convoluted.

He went down on his knees with his face twisted in agony. Moesha didn't want to cause her captive any real injury, so she stopped wrenching the deferential boy's arm after only a few seconds.

"Let me go!" Kevin screamed, his level of scared violence suddenly tripling.

He once more kicked at the bistro manager with his hard-soled new sneakers and even attempted to bite her.

To protect her shins from being kicked again, Moesha grabbed both of Kevin's wrists in her left fist, then used her right hand to do the same with the boy's ankles. Then she brought Kevin's wrists to his ankles, bowed her captive's lithe body backwards, and casually flipped the rather expensive-looking Nike sneakers off the boy's feet. Then Moesha waited for Kevin to kick her again. In fact she WANTED Kevin to kick her again ... wanted the satisfaction of hearing the savage young man yalp in pain as his bare toes collided with her hard shins. Because the boy wasn't wearing any socks, Moesha could see that the smooth soles of her captive's feet were pampered and as new-looking as an infant's. Another indication that it had been a long time since Kevin Lacombe had felt the mud of the Bayou or the Red River between his perfectly manicured toes.

"You coal-faced bitch! Let me go!"

The bistro manager's fists clenched automatically, but she held herself in check upon scrutinizing the boy's bruises again,

"Who beat you up, boy?"

Kevin cursed Moesha out in the native bayou tongue that was archaic French mixed in with African, Native American and Spanish words. Apparently the boy had not completely forgotten his upbringing. The young captive had by now broken out into a colder, more sickly sweat ... the sweat usually associated with a person suffering in the throes of a feverish malaise.

"Boy, I tolerate attitude for just so long...."

"Then kill me! Kill me! Slice off my skin and toss it in your Gumbo! My family is dead and I don't have any real friends around here, so kill me! Go on! Cut my throat! Grind me up and make boudin out of me! You'll be doing me a favor!"

The youth was weeping with a combination of anguish and terror that neither the woman or even the youth himself had expected.

"Tell me what happened to you, boy." Moesha said with a noticeable intonation of tenderness in his voice now, "Who beat you up? We're they the same ones who killed your folks?"

The boy responded to his captor's tenderness by spitting at her again. And this time a wad of saliva had hit the bistro manager dead-center in her left eye.

By now Moesha Bordeaux was fed up.

"That's it. You're NOT going to disrespect me a second longer on my own property." Moesha said, seizing the boy by his broad shoulders.

And anyone within earshot could hear the change in the bistro manager's voice ... the undercurrent of righteous fury that was surfacing. At this moment Moesha Bordeaux was afraid of herself. Afraid of what she might do to this man-boy who had clearly been hurt enough recently,

"It stops right now, you hear me boy? IT STOPS RIGHT NOW!"

As for Kevin himself, the excitement ... the death of his parents ... the terror of having been captured ... the previous beating he'd endured ... the new worsened state of rage that his captor was displaying ... they all caught up to him. And the deferential youth felt no pain as he lost consciousness ... only a sudden darkness rushing in at him from every direction. He felt himself falling. It seemed like a very long fall, and then everything went dark.

Uttering nothing but a weak sigh, Kevin collapsed in a dead faint into the bistro manager's arms.

And after his captive fainted, Moesha stared in disbelief at the flopping, limp athletic body that she held. At first she thought the youth was faking ... that the minute she released Kevin, the young man would make a mad dash back towards his home in South Remeau. But the bistro manager soon took in the fact that the youth's head was loose on his neck ... was lolling like the head of a flower on a broken stalk.

Moesha then shifted Kevin into a new position and the youth's golden-brown head flopped limply backwards. So far backwards that his head came into contact with his shoulder blades. The bistro manager also noticed that the youth's aquamarine blue eyes had rolled back in his head. And the now visible whites of Kevin's eyes mirrored the pale-white bloodlessness that had taken over his normally pink-hued features.

Moesha bore the full weight of the unconscious youth dangling in her hands. Because of the young man's visible injuries, it didn't surprise her that the combination of sick-fright and physical ill-treatment had been too much for Kevin Lacombe to endure.

The incredibly strong woman held the youth's limp, sculpted body in one arm while checking Kevin over for more serious injuries. She then turned the deferential eighteen-year-old around. The bistro manager's resistive arm was able to keep the unconscious youth on his feet, but he was unable to prevent Kevin's bare feet from scraping and sliding in a slick of oil that was marring his driveway.

Moesha turned the boy's muscled back to her, and Kevin's head flopped limply forward again. With a strong grip around the young man's broad chest and her hands locked over it, she tugged the boy beyond the area where the oil slick had been. She then heaved the limp form of Kevin Lacombe over her left shoulder, testing the weight of her young burden for balance. Then, using her right hand to steady the limp body on her left shoulder, the bistro manager crouched down and used two hooking fingers on his right hand to snag the sneakers she had yanked off her young captive's feet.

Moesha Bordeaux then calmly transported her unconscious burden into the house. The first unconscious male she had ever carried in who hadn't been rendered senseless by her own hand.

Once inside, the bistro manager stretched the youth out on a single mattress in a bedroom. Frowning absently, Harriet Bordeaux (Moesha' teen daughter) walked over to them, a clean pair of her older brother's PJs in her hands ... as per her mother's orders. She handed Moesha the pajamas and watched as the bistro manager removed the filthy, sweaty, blood-stained outer clothing that Kevin was wearing. Moesha' touch was adroit, and she was careful not to jostle the slumbering youth too much as she undressed him.

Before she dressed the boy in the pajamas that belonged to her son (who was away playing ball at LSU) , the bistro manager realized that she would have to dry him. Kevin's shivering body was still covered with the sick sweat of terror as well as with numerous scars and bruises from god only knew where. Moesha grabbed a towel and began to urgently dry him off. Despite her anger over what her captive had done, she couldn't help but feel pity at the current state of this boy who was lying unconscious, naked and unprotected before her. She quavered with each rub of the eighteen-year-old's chiseled body. Each touch of his feverishly hot flesh sent a flash of worry through Moesha Bordeaux. Was the young man so sick that he required professional medical attention?

She dried off Kevin's torso ... patting, brushing, and grazing the skin of the youth's bare, perfect body with a thick white towel. Had she not been so concerned about the deferential eighteen-year-old's well-being, Moesha might have REALLY taken notice of just how beautiful Kevin was. Moesha Bordeaux was the type of woman who appreciated beauty in all it's forms.

Once Kevin was dried, Moesha dressed him in the clean, though slightly ill-fitting, sleepwear. Soon after this, Moesha' daughter Harriet left the room in a huff. Wasn't it enough that the jock-looking Cajun Southsider was currently occupying her bed, did her mother have to clad the unconscious captive in her brother's favorite New Orleans Saint pajamas as well? Moesha tried to explain to the girl that keeping Kevin dressed in his sweat-soaked outer-clothing would have been inviting pneumonia ... and that the pajamas were necessary because it just wasn't right to have some sick whiteboy lounging around one's house naked unless, of course, he was a marked enemy to be fucked, murdered and buried in the swamps. But this youth clearly wasn't a true enemy of the Bayou Bitches he and his Seigneur buddies were simply young and stupid. Yes, Moesha TRIED to explain this to her daughter, but bull-headed young Harriet had stomped out of the room some time before the woman could synthesize her word to do so.

Shrugging, she turned her attention back to Kevin.

The youth was still asleep, a beam of waning sunlight making his golden brown hair glow. Moesha moved to the foot of the bed and a peculiar thought crossed the imperious woman's mind. With calm, adroit fingers she tugged down the boy's underwear and admired his extensive penis. She delighted in the musky odor permeating it, and it wasn't long before she had leaned over to give the semi-stiffened member a few licks ... a few licks that seemed to magically cause the penis to become fully erected!

Moesha whispered before boldly taking Kevin's penis into her mouth,

"Oh, this boy must have sampled some Red River Wine earlier."

And using this mouth like a cunt, she soon moved the senseless youth close to an explosion.

Even though he was still asleep, Kevin pushed up with his hips ... he even reflexively held the imperious woman's head down, forcing his cock deeper than she thought she could take it. But take it she did. She could feel the still mainly unconscious boy's tool swelling ... and then the jerking began.

"Ummmmmmmmmm!" Moesha moaned as she felt Kevin go over the edge.

The deferential youth moaned in his sleep as a sudden deluge of sperm began blasting into Moesha's asking mouth and throat,

"Unh! Unh! Unh! Unnnnnnhhhhhhh!"

She couldn't handle it all, and it began to leak from the corners of her mouth. She swallowed what she could, however, savoring the musky flavor, and finding that she really liked the Caucasian spice of it.

At last, the throbbing stopped, and she pulled Kevin's softening dick from her dripping lips.

Moesha then crawled further up onto the bed and kissed the sleeping youth full on the mouth, coating his lips with his own fresh deposit of semen which still coated her own lips and tongue.

After the sleeping youth had been carefully wiped clean and almost lovingly tucked back in, Moesha decided to get on the horn and see about locating a relative or SOMEONE who might know what to do with the unwell young Cajun captive residing in her home. She left the youth resting comfortably in the bedroom while she journeyed into the kitchen to use the phone.





Once her mother had gone into the kitchen, Harriet Bordeaux returned to what had once been her bedroom and found herself standing at the end of the mattress and pulling the blankets off the body of the slumbering Kevin. She shook her head to clear away the dream-like quality of what she was seeing, and gazed down at the deeply-sleeping eighteen year-old. What made this muscular youth any different from any of the other peckerwoods from the south-side of town? She wasn't sure. Maybe it was because Kevin Lacombe had an aura of glamour and sophistication about him. An aura that came as a result of his having been reared in a more affluent parish located FAR away from Remeau.

Harriet wasn't bad-looking herself. As she stared down at the inert youth, she smiled seductively. Seductive was, after all, her trademark look since she first began to fill out as a preteen. She gave her endless mane of braided hair an artful toss and shifted her killer mahogany-brown-skinned body expertly before the desire to partake of the gift lying helpless before her became overwhelming.

Without really thinking about it, the impulsive girl donned the leather mask her mother and her mother's friend's wore when they engaged in their sexcapades in New Orleans. She then rolled the sleeping boy over onto his stomach, pulled down his underwear and ... after strapping on her mother's rubber dildo ... prepared to mount Kevin!

She lubed up her artificial cock as well as the young man's rectum with the petroleum jelly. Then she ever so slowly penetrated the unconscious Kevin's asshole. She went very slow at first. Being fucked in the ass must have been very painful. But at the same time, the sleeping boy was clearly becoming excited and aroused. When Harriet saw that he was insentiently enjoying himself, she increased the tempo of her thrusts. Harriet then bent down, gripped Kev tight around the flat, muscled stomach and began to thrust into his ass hard. The harder she fucked him, the better the unconscious youth moaned pleasurably in his sleep. She kept this up for a long time.

In the sleeping boy's mind he imagined himself a bound prisoner ... his writs tied and suspended above his head. In his mind he was being fucked by two members of the masked Bayou Bitches ... and was able, in a way only possible in dreams, to watch as one of these murderous nymphos advanced towards him, armed with the dagger that would be used to slit his throat the moment he climaxed.

The second Kevin's throat was slit in his dream, Harriet slowly withdrew from his bleeding rectum in reality.

She then unstrapped the dildo, placed it on the floor, rolled the unconscious youth over onto his back again, took him in her arms, and smothered him with kisses. What had moved her to such a level of pity that she no longer found any joy in fucking this young stranger? Perhaps it was the way he had begun to gasp and cry in his sleep.

But regardless of his frightened, unconscious cries, Kevin would later realize that he liked nothing better sexually than a dildo up his ass.





When Kevin came to, he drowsily blinked at the dim light of the unfamiliar room he had been deposited in. After a while the still semi-delirious youth watched as phantom-like black figures glided about his sickroom, and took note of the fact that he had been stripped down from his own clothes and re-dressed in a pair of somewhat tight-fitting pajamas. More tired than frightened, the eighteen-year-old rubbed his eyes with his balled fists like a young child.

"Drink-up son." someone said.

He felt the smooth coldness of a drinking glass against his bottom lip. He had no choice but to swallow. Kevin's eyes cleared enough for him to see the dark beautiful face of Moesha Bordeaux.

"That was a bad thing you did, defacin' my house," The bistro manager said.

She came closer, seating herself in a chair near the bedside of her captive. Dark brown eyes studied Kevin subjectively'

"It takes balls to deface a person's home in the daytime, no?"

Kevin said nothing.

The woman's very dark brown face hardened slightly,

"But that was mistake number one, wasn't it?"

She jabbed a slender, long-nailed finger at him,

"You should've taken a cue from your racist contemporaries and performed your cowardly act of vandalism under the cover of darkness. But I was in my house making lunch and then I spotted you ... out there in broad daylight, scrabbling away with your little spray-can. You were so proud of your little scrawlings that you didn't even see me until it was too late, eh? Sure didn't expect you to faint like one of your helpless victim-mentality-laden Southside women though."

Moesha laughed cheerfully, and Kevin reddened with anger. The bistro manager chuckled at this,

"Oh, don't get your drawers in a bunch, critter ... I had to do SOMETHING to stop you from further vandalizing my home, no?"

Kevin, though clearly very frightened, seemed resigned to his fate,

"I know what you're planning to do to me. I remember what happened to those boys from Tillman ... what you people did to them."

Leaning forward, Moesha peered intently into the boy's aquamarine blue eyes,

"Ah, yes, three 'affluents' from Tillman who were 'taken care of' by what the press called a 'savage band of youths'. The word 'savage', you see, was used in place of 'black'. My belly also shakes with laughter when the press uses the word 'urban' to replace it! But I digress. Anyway, I well remember the incident of which you speak. A band of 'affluent' boys drove into a decidedly 'urban' section of town for kicks ... while they were there they spent their time shouting slurs and epithets at any urban person they happened to see ... and then firing upon them with paint-ball guns before speeding off into the night. But something they hadn't counted on happened, no? By chance their car takes a wrong turn, and these affluent boys suddenly find themselves trapped and surrounded by the worst kind or 'urban' people ... a street gang."

Kevin nodded, eyes wide,

"And before anyone of them could even get out of the car, they were all...."

"Yes. A tragedy. Those affluent boys were hateful bastards, but they hadn't deserved what happened to them."

"If you know all of this, why're you getting so mad now?"

"I'm angry because they are charging those 'urban' boys as adults and are seeking the death penalty. I'm angry because for every one 'affluent' killed by an 'urban', I've got statistics that can show you a twenty-nine 'urbans' killed by 'affluents' . . . and not once has the death-penalty been sought against THEM for anything racially-motivated! After all these years, and all this talk of progress, it always comes down to the same thing; an affluent person's life is judged to be worth more than an urban person's in the allegedly 'blind' eyes of the law! We've both grown up in the South, boy ... you and I BOTH know that all that 'justice is blind' talk is just so much bullshit, no? To say nothing of justice for WOMEN. That's why I'm angry, boy ... and that's why we gals around here have come to realize that if women like us want justice against those who've wronged us ... well, these are women who are going to have to take matters into their OWN hands!"

The unadulterated terror she saw in Kevin's eyes cooled Moesha' rage. The stunned bistro manager realized that it must look to the boy as if she were about to murder him, weak and helpless as he lay.

"Listen, boy ... Kevin," Moesha said, speaking as gently as she would have to her own son, "I've caught wind of news from the Southside. Seems like the only people looking for you are your fellow wannabe Nazi vandals. That means that if you have some guardians at home, they aren't too worried about what's become of you, no?"

It was at this moment that Kevin broke down and told Moesha everything. He told the bistro manager how he had been born po' white trash, then moved with his family and lived the life of rich white suburbanite for nine years, then returned home to Remeau and to po' white trash status following the deaths of his parents. He told Moesha about how he currently lives alone with his grandfather ... a bitter, surly old man who loved Gordon's London Dry Gin too much to keep track of his only grandson. He explained to the bistro manager that, since his return to Remeau his only true family had been the Seigneur Supplicier gang. Sure they were a family that abused and ridiculed and even tortured him, but they were really all he had.

Moesha Bordeaux listened intently and took all of this information into account before deciding what she was going to do with her handsome young captive.





The bistro manager disembarked for her friend Regina Thibadeaux's gated driveway later that evening. Upon her arrival, she noticed that a crowd composed of a half-dozen East Remeau female residents was assembled ... and all were, not coincidentally, members of the esoteric society of Bayou Bitches. Inquiring as to what was going on, the bistro-manager, who was a member of the Bitches in good standing, was informed that more youths from the Southside had spray-painted the 'welcome' billboard located on the environs of the only road leading into their section of town ... had painted what was supposed to be a German Nazi swastika (but the angles were facing the wrong directions) over the only real landmark their area had. This amoral act had affected the residents of East Remeau deeply; they stood in Regina's driveway with incensed eyes and dark, malevolent faces.

"What I don't get is why them boys are doin' this," Elvira Javette said, shaking her head at the absurdity of what was going on, "We all know of other hate groups from around Louisiana who cause us some grief now and then ... but these Cajun boys from Remeau? My mama delivered half of them critters!"

"Oh, don't take all of their neo-Nazi posturing seriously, Elvira. It's all a game to them. I mean, they aren't like the RAHO Warriors or the Klan or anything. Still we have to deal with them ... show them the replication of their acts. It wasn't a year ago that we stopped them damned Crips from slaughtering each other out in neighboring Sabine Hill. If we can staunch the black-on-black crime, we can do the same with the white-on-black crime, no?"

It was at this moment that Moesha Bordeaux made an off-handed remark ... a joke really ... that she would later regret,

"Maybe we could get those same ex-Crips to patrol around the area and handle the Seigneur Supplicier. Let one gang deal with another gang."

There was a jumble of voices among the crowd. All of the other men present turned to look at Moesha with questioning expressions. The Crips after all were a vicious, hardened street gang that had begun in Los Angeles, but had somehow found there way to Southern Louisiana.

"How's that again?" Vernetta King asked.

Moesha shrugged,

"Well, the Crips once banded together and actually caused the RAHO Warrior Resistance to disband. What would it take for that bloodthirsty, AK-47-toting pack to keep a few penny-ante juvenile rednecks out of our hair?"

"It's ironic that them boys drew that German swastika wrong. After, all it was used by the Nazis as a symbol of racial purity." Elvira Javette said, chuckling, "An' you know what they say 'bout bein' born in Louisiana ... you can never be sure WHAT your grandparents are racially!"

The assembled women laughed, then went back to discussing Moesha's suggestion. The majority of them had indeed realized the idea's worth, and by the following evening it was all set. Certain members of the Hamilton Street Crips ... mainly those with a bellicose bend to their attitudes ... patrolled the outskirts of East Remeau. Moesha didn't think much of this ... didn't even consider for one second that a hardened gang like the Crips would take a passel of backwoods half-wits seriously. The night of the Crips' first patrol, she slept untroubled by thoughts of them or the Seigneur Supplicier.





With extra vivacity, Moesha's daughter Harriet Bordeaux and the ex-Seigneur Kevin Lacombe spent the day hiking and fishing in the cypress forest beyond the bayou ... and away from the prying eyes of both the Southside and Eastside residents of Remeau. For two days Kevin had resided with the bistro manager and her daughter ... completely forgetting the fact that he had once been considered a captured enemy Southsider. Now he was just a house-guest spending time away from his grandfather who, thus far, had not made an issue of his absence. So the deferential youth spent his time with the Bordeaux women ... particularly Harriet. And the two often played what some would consider to be strange games together.

Tonight in particular the impulsive girl and the deferential youth decided to succumb to the notions that had been plaguing their minds ever since the day that the daughter of Moesha Bordeaux fucked Kevin Lacombe in his sleep.

And the second her mother left for work, Harriet appeared before a half-naked Kevin with one of Moesha's leather masks obscuring her face ... and one of Moesha's dildos strapped around her waist.

And once Kev was completely lubricated, she climbed on the bed and knelt over him on all fours, the fake cock hanging obscenely between her legs. She grabbed one of his nipples and twisted it violently, pain shot through his body as she tugged and twisted,

"Come on!" she screamed as she pulled on his sensitive flesh, "Show me what you're made of!"

She slapped his handsome face while she clawed his nipples with her other hand. The dildo swung back and forth.

"Please fuck me Harriet," Kevin groaned she slapped him over and over, "please fuck me with your hard cock!"

She reached between hid legs and ripped the BVD's away from his ass, then positioned the fake cock between his cheeks. As she eased it into his tight ass, she crooned,

"You're going to love this, Kev."

Suddenly, she rammed the phallus into the deferential youth. He felt a searing pain as the blunt head of it probed deep into his ass. She began to ride him, shoving the dildo in and pulling it out over and over. He felt a warmth come over him as she fucked his ass. He even began to push up to meet her thrusts and moaned at the incredible pleasure he was beginning to feel.

The pleasure soon turned to fright when Harriet's best friend Tasha King appeared as if from nowhere! Tasha was the daughter of another member of the Bayou Bitches named Vernetta. And like Harriet, Tasha was clad in her mother's leather hood mask and was wearing a dildo strapped to her waist.

Soon a terrified but helpless Kevin was on his knees ... hand bound securely behind his back ... taking Tasha's dildo down his throat, while still taking Harriet's cock up his ass! He was undulating in a painful orgasm as the two girls fucked both his miserable holes with painful dildos. Tasha forced her artificial barbed cock deeper into his tight throat, subsequently shredding the soft tissues. She only withdrew when the youth began to cough blood.

"Shit!" both Harriet and Tasha cried when the youth asphyxiated on his own blood and passed out cold.

Once Kevin had been tended to sufficiently at a county hospital, he and the impulsive girl returned to the Bordeaux house way past Harriet's set curfew. They immediately began to prepare for bed ... were absolutely determined to be under the covers and sleeping before the bistro manager returned home from work. The two had been sleeping in the same bed for days now, and Harriet's mother, being the strong independent woman that she was, trusted her educated daughter's judgement and did not protest this.

That night Kevin sat on the edge bed, hurriedly untying his shoelaces and removing his sneakers and the rest of his clothes.

Harriet glanced at the youth's body; the young man's muscles were defined and glistened with perspiration. Before ambling into the adjoining bathroom, the impulsive girl discreetly sniffed the air. The room was now tainted with the intoxicating Caucasian smell of Kevin Lacombe.

"Don't drool on the pillow tonight. Ain't nuthin' worse than rolling over and planting your cheek in somebody else's spit." Harriet said upon returning from the bathroom.

Her affable grin belied the crudeness of her words,

"Sharing a bed with you is a lot of work, no?"

"Says the gal who hogs all the covers and spends half the night mumbling in her sleep," Kevin said, grinning at the impulsive girl as she prepared to climb into bed.

The eighteen-year-old removed his socks before getting under the covers. Harriet noted that Kevin's size twelve feet were beautiful ... long toes, high arches, smooth and yet still meaty, muscular and manly.

After shedding her own outer clothing, the impulsive girl climbed into bed beside Kevin and fell asleep almost instantly.

Kevin, who always had a hard time sleeping, was still awake when Miss Moesha Bordeaux came home from work. The bistro manager was clearly in a foul mood because she kept grumbling to herself about having been pulled over by a policeman on her way home ... and apparently she had been pulled over, searched and sexually harassed for no reason beyond the color of her skin.

When the bistro manager tip-toed into the bedroom, Kevin opened his eyes just enough so that he could see in the dark. He saw Moesha lean over and give the deeply-sleeping Harriet a kiss on the forehead.

"What kind of a world did I bring you into, child?" the bistro manager whispered to her slumbering daughter, "Wish yo' Daddy was still alive. He could always take the sting out of a day filled with a lot of redneck-related bullshit, no?"

Kevin felt a thrill of fear. For it was at precisely this moment that a clearly angry Miss Bordeaux turned her attention to HIM. Kevin saw the bistro manager's hand come down towards him. The eighteen-year-old tensed ... believing that he was about to be struck ... believing that he was about to stand as a representative of every white person who'd ever wronged Moesha Bordeaux.

But the expected punch never came.

Instead of feeling a painful blow, Kevin felt the covers being pulled up, and then smoothed over his shoulders. Then the bistro manager's right hand gave Kevin's head a gentle pat.

When Moesha Bordeaux left the bedroom, the eighteen year old drifted off to sleep with a relieved smile on his face and a pleasurable warmth in his chest.





Late one night, Moesha heard a ruckus not far from where she was pruning the roses in her backyard. Her neighbor, Vernetta King, dropped by in passing and informed her that a blond south-side young person was spotted prowling around the backyard of Old Lady Batiste, and that a group of gang-banging Crips had unsuccessfully attempted to capture the elusive Cajun boy.

"But atleast we got them critters watchin' their backs now," said Vernetta with a grin, "Moesha, gettin' the Crips to guard our neighborhood was the best idea you had since you passed out them pamphlets that explained why sex twice a week is good for the heart!"

Moesha nodded mutely. In truth she barely even remembered making the proposal to involve the gang-banging Crips in the affairs of East Remeau. Trying to forget the fact that it was she who had actually brought a gang into her town, she finished up her gardening. She switched on the porch light, because evening had descended by this time, and was carrying her gardening tools out to the shed. It was then that she heard the series of gunshots. Then silence. Moesha continued putting her tools away in the shed.

The bistro manager had just finished locking up the small, wooden outbuilding when she heard the sound of several young men painfully wailing in the distance. It sounded like the rather nasal howls of the white south-side boys, but she couldn't be for certain. Not wanting to even consider what the sound of gunshots and the agonized wailing youths might be indicative of, Moesha shut his ears to the sounds in the distance and made his way into the house.

The next morning, when she left for work, the neighborhood was unusually quiet. None of her neighbors ... who were also leaving out for work at the same time as he ... spoke of hearing crying, howling young people the night before. In fact, no one said anything beyond a customary hello.





Later that evening Moesha received a phone call from Vernetta King to meet at her garage.

And when Moesha finally arrived in the nurse's carport she was greeted by a familiar group of women from the neighborhood. All of them were members of the Bayou Bitches, and all were clad in their leather masks, high heeled boots and strapped-on dildos. Vernetta King herself along with Regina Thibbadeaux and Elvira Javette and Gracie Johnson and a few others. They were joined by several members of the notorious Crip street gang. A gang of cold eyed boys with names like D-Dog and Monster and Crazybone and Spooky and Little Terrorist names they weren't given at birth, but were branded to them even more fixedly than their true appellatives.

Moesha, who had arrived with both her daughter Harriet and Kevin Lacombe in tow, realized that the Crips and the Seigneur Supplicier boys had one thing in common; they were all throwaways ... forgotten kids shaped from either foster care and no care at all.

And speaking of the Seigneur Supplicier, these boys were also present in the carport. All of the vandalizing young heathens were lined up in the garage. They stood with their hands bound in front of them, their eyes fixed on Regina Thibadeaux's rifle ... the rifle that the normally passive waitress was currently aiming at them.

"Our friends the Crips here caught them all last night," said Elvira Javette.

She was going from boy to boy, examining the ropes binding their hands and probing them for any kind of slack,

"Didn't you hear all that shooting and screaming?"

Moesha nodded. She was very glad that the howling she'd heard had not been the sound of Cajun boys being massacred. Yet she still wondered; what were all the gunshots about? And just what had the Crips ... who were all younger on average than the wannabe Nazi vandals ... done to make the Seigneur boys scream?

Like Kevin Lacombe, all the captured young vandals looked almost angelic by 'classic all-American' standards. But unlike Kevin, each of these poor Cajun youths wore a pair of worn canvas Converse All-Star sneakers on their feet ... sneakers that didn't cost half as much as the Nike footwear that Kevin wore. Kevin's Air Jordans were, perhaps, the last remnant of the so-called "good life" the young man had lived after he and his parents had moved away from Remeau.

To those who saw them standing on a platform, their hands bound together in front of them, the Seigneur Supplicier boys resembled a passel of exceedingly fair-skinned slaves ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. They stood side by side, heads bowed with weariness. Their marble-white, slightly-tanned or pinkish skin gleaming with sweat in the reflective light of the carport.

"Okay, so now that you've captured 'em," Moesha said, warily eyeing both the captive Seigneur and their surly gang-banging Crip captors. "What are you going to do with 'em?"

As if in answer, Vernetta King crouched down on the floor of her garage. Using a brick as a working surface, the nurse put down a torn-off corner of a Legion of Super-Heroes comic book. Then she set a number of tablets (milligram level unknown) composed of some somnolent narcotic upon the colorful piece of slick paper. She ground all of the tablets into fine powder and then folded the paper carefully before handing it to the Crip gangbanger called D-Dog.

"Here, mix that into the orange juice I gave you. And mix it real good ... if it isn't thoroughly dissolved into the juice, the powder will blister these boys' throats when they drink it."

"You plannin' on makin' us drink poisonous orange juice?!"

A youthfully freckle-faced Seigneur named Egan Trou was horrified. He, like all of the other captive Cajun boys had heard Vernetta King's words clearly. Egan was a tall, sharp-featured young man with green eyes and a wispy shock of ginger-hair.

"It's not poison, spot-boy," D-Dog assured him. "It is only a "

"We don't care what it is!" cried Ian Maciel, leader of the Seigneur, "You can take that orange juice, pour it in a dick-shaped bottle and shove it up your ass, jig!"

Moesha cuffed the boy's ear, but not too harshly. It was clear to almost everyone that she was trying to protect this vicious Seigneur Supplicier members from a far more serious thrashing. The other Bayou Bitches were not as well-stocked with mercy as the bistro manager.

Ian was still clutching his cuffed, ringing ear when he said,

"We're not taking it! Look, why don't y'all jus' let us go. We was only foolin' anyways ... we ain't in the Klan or nuthin'. We was just "

"I'm through playin' around with these critters," said Elvira Javette, completely ignoring the wannabe neo-Nazi gangleader. "I say we make 'em scream and then pour the juice down their throats while their mouths are wide open."

The other young Cajun captives protested vehemently ... some with mortal fear in their eyes. They turned to Ian Maciel for guidance.

But the handsome leader of the Seigneur Supplicier shook his head piteously as he stared back at his loyal gang of boys. He gave them all a helpless look, and his eyes seemed to say, we'd better drink it, fellows. If we don't they'll more than likely torture us until we do.

So with shaking hands, all the captives took a big swallow from the orange juice bottle, terror and dismay etched into their faces. Terror and dismay prompted by the thought that what they were drinking may be poisonous ... and by the knowledge that when the chips were down, their fearless leader had not been able to protect them.

In less than five minutes after swallowing the orange juice, the Seigneur Supplicier youths were nodding and drowsing ... jaws loose and slack, heads lolling. When each young man finally lost complete consciousness and fell over, Moesha and Regina were there to catch them.

Hours later, Ian Maciel was the last of the Seigneur youths to awaken ....

And he had awakened to find that he was naked, and his wrists were behind his back and cruelly tied together. He was lying on a cold concrete floor ... and someone was rubbing something between his legs. Where was he? He was in someone's garage, but he didn't know where ... probably somewhere far from South Remeau. The other members of the Seigneur Supplicier were hanging by their wrists in groups of two ... suspended from the ceiling like sides of beef. Suddenly the memory of his capture and drugging came flooding back to Ian.

"I told you sedating them before stringing them up would be a good idea, Vernetta," The Bayou Bitch called Ells Javette said regarding the securely bound and suspended members of the Wannabe neo-Nazi clique. "If we hadn't put them out they would have put up a devil of a fight, no?"

"So what'll we do now?" asked Bayou Bitch Regina Thibbadeaux.

Ells Javette grinned evilly.

"I've caught wind of how these Seigneur Supplicier boys initiate new members into their gang. I say we teach them some new ways to spice up their initiation process. It is always good for young dogs new tricks, no?"





Young Harriet Bordeaux would always remember watching as her mother and her mother's friends stripped naked, tied and suspended the unconscious Cajun youths. The sight of them ... so pale, limp and motionless ... was rather frightening, but Moesha had brought her and Kevin Lacombe to see the captives and said,

"This is humiliation, kids ... remember this if you ever get a notion of doing a crime in this neighborhood."

Kevin and Harriet nodded, then glanced at the other Bayou Bitches present in Vernetta King's ominous garage. Tall black leather stiletto heels bolstered their height by several inches, accentuating their appearance as aggressive, forceful dominatrixes. They were all wearing their face-obscuring leather masks. They were armed with black leather whips as well. Around their torsos they'd strapped leather harnesses that held in place huge spiked dildos.

They stormed about the garage, swishing their leather whips menacingly in the air. When they glared at the wannabe neo-Nazis, the captured young men began to whimper. The dildos stuck out menacingly in front of their female captors, and the entire mood seemed to be making the blood-thirsty Bitches wet with excitement.

Vernetta King approached the naked Ian who was the only member of the Seigneur's not to have been suspended against the wall. Apparently he, as leader of the gang, was selected to be the fiend that the Bayou Bitches would make an example out of.

"Get your ass up in the air, mutha fucka!" Vernetta screamed.

Ian moaned piteously as she struck his rear with the whip twenty times. It left crisscross welts on his naked ass,

"Time for some dick sucking, now," she said.

She then grabbed his blond hair and thrust the dildo into his reluctant mouth. Slowy pushing mre and more of the rubber penis into his mouth, she demanded,

"Suck it! Take it down your throat, dog!"

And as the gangleader sucked he became curiously aware that his penis was filling with blood and stiffening to an erection. He wasn't turned on by this horrific experience ... so why was he becoming so hard? He noticed the half-filled bottle of Red River Wine sitting precariously in the corner of the room and the lingering taste of the same aphrodisiac in this mouth. Suddenly everything became so clear. He ended up on his back as he sucked ... hands still tied painfully behind him.

The Bitch simply tore his gullet to ribbons with the fake spiked phallus. Straddling him, Vernetta then unstrapped her dildo and impaled herself on Ian's throbbing cock. Taking him fully inside of her, she squeezed her powerful vaginal muscles. Ian wailed in painful ecstasy as the woman began slow, powerful thrusts with her hips while increasing the constriction on his penis with her pussy,

"I'm going to fuck your brains out, boy! I'm going to pulverize your prick into mush!"

The woman continued her onslaught on Ian's cock. Her pounding pelvic thrusts and the unbelievable constriction of her vagina were turning the young gangleader's prick into mincemeat. Ian's back arched and he was crying uncontrollably as Vernetta dominated him completely. Her constriction on his penis was so taught that only the lubrication of her vaginal canal enabled her to continue her powerful thrusting strokes. Ian was grunting and moaning in carnal agony with each pounding stroke. And Vernetta was reveling in the boy's pain. She also reveled in the site of the young blond gangleader's uncontrollably erect and throbbing penis.

Now the Bayou Bitch called Elvira appeared before Ian and boldly untied his bound hands. Elvira was a beautiful woman with a mysterious hard look about her despite the leather mask. She was clad in the same Bayou Bitch attire ... which helped to accentuate her strong, well-defined arms and legs. She did not weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds and was about six inches shorter than him. Still, her courage and valor and hatred were unmatched. She was also armed with her most lethal weapon; her fingernails. The garage light glinted off those razor sharp metallic-red-painted claws, causing them to appear even more fearsome.

Ian was naked and had nothing to protect his goodly-sized jewels. Elvira attacked first with a savage fist to his jaw. The gangleader was surprised at the force of the blow and the fact she did not immediately use her claws. The two exchanged blows with each other ... the youth, suffering only minor injuries, and Elvira none at all. And as Ian missed with a roundhouse left, Elvira ran her weapon-like fingernails across his chest opening lines of blood. She then shot a leg into the blond gangleader's groin, doubling him over. She got behind him and raked his back up and down several times, releasing more streams of blood. Ian screamed lamentably and was caught off-guard when the woman rocked his mid-section with several blows. Her fists broke through his young muscled exterior and turned it quickly to pliant jelly. With a few broken ribs, the youth stumbled to his knees breathing heavily.

Elvira hammered his bleeding chest, knocking him down to the concrete floor. She grabbed his leg and savagely twisted his ankle, nearly breaking it. Agony was written in the young gangleader's face, but he dragged himself around as best he could. Elvira relentlessly attacked the wounded Ian, pummeling him with devastating blows, each leaving him weaker still. As he attempted another roundhouse punch, his ankle gave out and he fell forward. Elvira grabbed him from the rear and bent his arm in an awkward angle behind his back. She applied more and more pressure until the arm snapped and hung loosely at his side.

Seeing this, one of the bound and suspended wannabe Nazi youths (who's name was Mason Chenier) vomited his guts up. His clique's headman was being torn apart piece by piece. Still, Ian deserved his fate in Mason's opinion, for he had not forgiven the blond gangleader for the senseless murder of their fellow Seigneur, Jamie Richelieu.

Meanwhile, the battle continued .

Elvira flung the blond gangleader onto the ground and impaled herself on his uncontrollably hardening penis. Ian screamed. Most of the other captured members of his gang ... who were being forced to witness this spectacle ... screamed as well. They knew that, after the Bitches were through with their leader, they themselves would be forcibly fucked, brutalized and bloodied in turn.

"How do you like that, boy?" Elvira spat at Ian, constricting the gangleader's trapped member even harder.

"Aauuugghhhhhhh!" he cried. He put one hand on the woman's thighs, which were pressing in on his sides. And Elvira was gasping pleasurably as a result of her own arousal ... then pushed in on the youth's sides slightly harder with her legs. Ian pounded on her thighs with his one good arm and his head flopped back and forth as the woman increased her sexual torture.

"Arrrghhhhhh!!!!" Ian screamed in agony, "Finish me, please! Just fucking kill me ... aaauuugghhh!"

He begged feebly as the Bayou Bitch worked him over with her powerful muscles. His pain was intense and he was totally under her steely control. She dictated the pace. She made all the moves. All he could do was lay under her, looking at her contours and breasts, and take what she dished out. He was helpless, weak and in agony. Finally his rock hard penis released, allowing the blond youth to let loose with a huge, pulsing orgasm that seemed to go on for minutes. And Elvira got every drop. Milking Ian's cock ruthlessly with her hard vaginal muscles, she drained him dry.

The woman took what she wanted, but she still wasn't through. Elvira kept the bleeding young man's now flaccid cock trapped in her vagina and squeezed with all her might. The Bayou Bitch battered his prick for at least ten minutes while he lay beneath her crying piteously. Whether it was his cries of agony, or if the friction of her vaginal grasp finally caused it, Elvira eventually had her own orgasm and rolled off of the youth. Ian lay there, inert. Drained.

But his ordeal still wasn't over. Vernetta and Elvira yanked the weak blond youth to his feet so that he could resume the fight!

So the young gangleader battled on ... with a weak ankle and broken arm. Elvira wildly dove forward with sharp fingernails extended to land several deep gashes to his forehead blurring his vision with a bright scarlet mask of blood. A blow to the side of his head sent Ian reeling. Elvira picked him up by his blond hair, bringing him to his knees. She began to slap him, almost taking off his head, until the youth teetered on the edge of losing consciousness. She wrapped the belt from her strap-on dildo around his throat and pulled. His one good hand could not dislodge the strap, despite his clawing at it. Elvira was relentless. She didn't even pay attention to Ian's futile efforts with his good hand. On his knees before the vicious Bayou Bitch he was powerless.

Then, with her fingers fully extended, she drove her claws at the helpless youth with all the strength she could muster. Clawing left and right, back and forth, she absolutely shredded the gangleader's vulnerable testicles. The sacks opened the flood gates to a veritable river of blood.

As if what was left of his strength was contained within his now destroyed balls, Ian collapsed in a heap on his back directly in front of Elvira. She pounced, or fell on top of him. Her naked crotch covered his face enabling her to view the damage done by her fingernails to his privates. Ian was making some truly unearthly screams. To silence him, Elvira jammed her claws into his throat. Her face sitting further muffled the pitiful groans emitted from the young gangleader.

Now Elvira set to work and began to severely rake him across the chest again ... slicing even more vertically and horizontally-designed striped gashes across his chest. Each stroke of her nails seemed to gruesomely remove another layer of skin and muscle. Ian's eyes were drenched in tears and blood, and only gurgling sounds came from his throat. Elvira continued carving for quite awhile. She sliced his chest until she reached bone.

The other members of the Seigneur Supplicier cried, and wailed and pleaded to be released. A couple of the young men had actually fainted while watching as their leader was torn to shreds.

After pausing for a moment to notice her blood soaked body, Elvira continued to flail away at Ian. As she finally finished and dismounted the once arrogant blond gangleader, she could see that his formerly defined chest was no more than a hallowed out carcass. The young man was now barely twitching with life, but his eyes still followed his conqueror. She leaned over his crotch closely, and with one elegant stroke she severed his penis from his body! Thiswas the last thing Ian Maciel ever saw. He gave up the ghost and departed this world. Elvira held her bloody prize aloft and screamed a Masai war cry.

The other captured members of the Seigneur Supplicier screamed themselves hoarse in horror ... others fainted. Others who had regained consciousness after fainting earlier, passed out yet again.

After the torturous tribulation of their leader had ceased, Elvira warned the boys ominously,

"Just remember, critters, mess with our property again and we'll capture you all again, and each and every one of you will suffer. Oh, we won't work you over as much as we did your leader. No, it'll be much WORSE!"

The Bayou Bitches used more orange juice to drug the young captives back into unconsciousness. After this, Moesha, Vernetta, Elvira, Gracie and Regina carried the five captives to a hill overlooking the boys' own Southside neighborhood. The five young Seigneur members ... still naked as the day they were born ... would rest comfortably amongst the marsh hay and hibiscus until the tranquilizing narcotic they'd ingested wore off. Then this impudent quintet of nude youths would make their way towards home, humiliated but (hopefully) wiser for the torture and murder they'd been forced to witness in Vernetta King's garage.


Moesha Bordeaux enjoyed an entire day of peace after Ian Maciel's body was buried beneath the fresh concrete foundation in front of Tyrone's Rib Shack. On Saturday she took her daughter Harriet and Kevin Lacombe (who basically belonged to her now) and several other Eastside kids catfishing, hunting and bowling. On Sunday she arrived back at her home with every intention of relaxing until work at the restaurant the next morning. The two young people in her charge, however, had different plans.

As soon as Moesha lay down for a nap, Kevin and Harriet retreated to the garage where the impulsive girl strapped on her mother's dildo and fucked the deferential boy ... first in his mouth and then in his ass.

Tuesday nights later became very special to Harriet and Kevin. That's when they get together for a scheduled wild night of passion, which always ended with the girl savagely fucking the boy with the strap-on dildo. In both their minds this ferocious giving and taking of affection was the best way they could demonstrate how much they cared for one another. Sometimes Moesha would join in this libidinous activity, but for the most part she merely stepped aside and let the young people have their fun.