Jian Carlo cringed as Serafina’s followers twirled, crouched, and leapt in the firelight, casting demonic shadows on the surrounding trees. Their animal costumes captured the essence of the spirits they imitated but were nowhere near as flamboyant as the ones adorning the guests at the Magic Ball, nor were their bodies as beautiful.
Puckered skin, flabby bellies, sagging breasts. These were not the tight, young bodies of the club girls Jian Carlo was accustomed to screwing or the muscled athletes who frequented his gym. Serafina’s followers came from the favelas of Rio Comprido and danced with grotesque abandon.
Sinewy men beat on the atabaques, invigorated the misshapen acolytes to greater feats of repugnance, then smacked the hides and changed the rhythm. The acolytes stopped their gyrations and separated to reveal a spray of red plumes emerging from behind the bonfire.
As if born of flames, Serafina rose, clad in red, over nine feet tall from the top of her headdress to the bottom of her feet. Her wild hair was bound and her breasts secured by a red leather brassiere. Matching strips of leather swung from the bands around her outstretched arms and swaying hips.
She grabbed a cat o’ nine tails from the tree stump altar and sauntered toward him. He couldn’t move. Every stride opened her paneled skirt and gave him glimpses of the darkness between her thighs.
She flicked her wrist and snapped the tails of her red leather whip. He knew that ecstasy and pain. And God help him, he wanted to know it again.